Blood's Honor:Bastard of Winterhold
by DeathBladeVI
Summary: Norok is the Bastard of Winterhold, looking for his parents. The Skyrim Civil War cuts Skyrim in half, splitting friends and family. The Dragons under the World Eater have returned after Eras of absence. Only a Dragonborn can save them from this fate. The Companions fight their Silver clad enemy, in the shadows and not seen in the open. And a mountain clansman fights for his clan.
1. Found

**I'm crazy. I cannot stay on one story. But this one, I promise you(and I have made many promises like this) but I am going to put everything on hiatus. I am creating my Skyrim Novelization, but the main focus will not be on the DragonBorn, though much of the story will be in the DB's POV, it will be on the heir to the Winterhold Jarldom. And his story. **

**Also, I need a coauthor, and a betareader. Please message me, and I will gladly accept any assistance. **

**Onto the fic.**

**Also, I will be updating this at least once every two days, or maybe everyday, until Tuesday, where my coauthor will take over, for two weeks, and then I will take it upon myself to continue it. **

**Please Review, P.M something. I don't want to see like a three hundred people with accounts viewed it, and like two, reviewed. I have also changed Korir to be a much better ruler, just for shits and giggles. And I have changed some stuff about Winterhold and Korir's wife. Also, I got this idea from reading The WinterGuard, a story about Winterhold as well, and there may be similarites. So bare with me. THe story a DrunkenNord91 is wonderful, and I would recommend it to anybody.**

**I'm also using Boys Do like Girls rank system, so don't hate. I also made Winterhold a shit load better, like where its on par with Windhelm. Can't really raise an army from three houses, right?**

_"I am Korir. This is my son's story, and I tend to write it down from my own hand. I don't know what has happened to him, but I hope he is alive. It all started on the winter road, and when it ends, I shall not know."_**  
**

**An excerpt from the _The Tales Of Skyrim, 4th Era Edition__, written around 17 5E, published by Urag, the head of the Scribes of the College of Winterhold, _**

**183 4E**

Jarl Korir Winter's-Blade, the ruler of Winterhold. The city was built on a cliff, and much had been rebuilt since the Great Collapse. The Jarl was young, around twenty-five of years, and the years have not been gracious for one of his age. He descended upon the Jarldom with his father's death, an old man, a cautious man. He had died with a sword in his back, courtesy of his steward.

His hold was rebuilding, and Winterhold was having increased trade and immigration. Walls had been reconstructed, and the cries of traders, goods, the hoof beats of caravans made their way to Winterhold once again. The port that once was broken and abandoned, was rebuilt, and traders from High Rock, Cyrodiil, and Hammerfell again filled its waters. Scholars came to study at the College of Winterhold, which had also expanded to take in more mages and scholars. Many Nords still distrusted them, but the Mages kept to themselves, only to come into the city for food or shelter, before their expeditions to places that did not interest Korir.

Korir was not bitter towards the College, even though he still thought they were to blame. But he let go of his anger, realizing he had better things to do. He was young and energetic, contrary to his appearance. His steward, a dark elf he never knew the name of, was executed by him, for lying to him about his connections to the College and stealing from the people, plus assassinating the young ruler's father. His new steward was a man name Kraldar, a wise man, and was able to influence the young Jarl towards more rational ways of looking at things.

His armies were made of the winter, for Winterhold was a hold of snow. The Jarl could boast an army of five thousand, while his city had almost twenty thousand people living in it. His city used to hold twenty times the amount, but reconstruction meant that more and more people were moving to Winterhold, making it a city to rival Solitude once again. As the Jarl and his people continued to rebuild his hold, he made plans to marry the daughter of a faraway lord in Cyrodiil, and he was content, for now. The girl was from Bravil, and her name sounded queer and unfamiliar on the Nordic tongue.

Jarl Korir, with his auburn hair, white snow skin, and his broad stature was walking along the winter road, with his Housecarl, Rogar Wet-Pommel, and his son Kai. The snow was blazing, a queer way for the snow to act, but the Jarl paid no attention to it. The rising cliffs that bordered to the Sea of Ghosts were as white as ever, and the Jarl was surprised to see some green growing in between the snow.

"It is beautiful, is it not?" asked the Jarl, and his Housecarl, dressed in the steel white armor of Winterhold, nodded in agreement. The snow seemed to dance from the clouds, as it blanketed the city, and the white stone walls were now sparkling, as the afternoon sun rose in the distance, covered by the mountains near the old ruins of Sarrathal.

"It is. The stark beauty of Winterhold will never be matched by the cities of the south." his Housecarl answered. Rogar was a strong man, and served under Ulfric Stormcloak during the Battle of Markarth against the Forsworn. He then drifted from city to city, until Korir managed to gain his loyalty, by saving his life. The Helm of Winterhold, made of strong and stout Skyforge Steel, was adorned on the Jarl's head, while a thick cloak was wrapped around his Jarl's royal robes.

"Ah, yes, I am looking forward to meet that little girl from Bravil. What is her name? Daenarys?" Korir inquired. _A queer name, _thought the Jarl. It was said that Daenarys was a very queer woman, instead of being soft and meek, like the noble woman of the south were more inclined to do, she was wild and untamed. _Let us see what the cold of Skyrim says to her._

"A very unusual name, especially for the people of the south. But I heard she is about twenty-four, and still a woman flowered." Rogar replied, watching the ships of the Jarl's fishing fleet. Korir noticed that his Housecarl, a Nord about the age of thirty-three, with dirty blonde hair, massive hands, and a strong and boisterous laugh, had his hand on the hilt of his steel sword. Korir had his hands on Winter's Warmth, for it was a Skyforge steel great sword, and caused its opponent to literally burst into flames. He was proud of the family heirloom, having gone a quest to find it after it had been lost for almost two centuries.

"What is wrong?" asked the Jarl, and Rognar stopped the little trio. Kai, around the age of fifteen, had his hands on his own iron sword, one he forged himself. Korir was quite proud of the young lad, and he was watching him blossom under the tutelage of the Thane of Journeyman's Nook, Uruk, an Orc from High Rock. It was unusual for an Orc in Skyrim to leave the Strongholds dotted around the area, but the old Orc was strong, and Korir knew that the Orc was a wise council.

_His own banner is a giant shield, crossed by the face of Malacath. _Uruk Devil's-Blood, as was his clan name, was fearsome, and Korir thought Kai was lucky to survive under his tutelage and brutality.

"That noise. It sounds, like, a cry?" Rognar said, uncertainty in his eyes. Korir's own senses went haywire, for just a minute, until he heard it himself.

_It is a cry._

Korir, with sword drawn, approached the area where the sound was coming from, the shimmering steel in both of his hands. The walls of Winterhold were behind him, and the winter road clear of all creatures. Rognar approached first, looking for the location of the noise. Suddenly a piercing shriek shattered the winter air, and Rogar spun like a dragon towards the sound. It was coming from the cliffs. Korir was pounding with fear, but his veins coursed with curiosity and wonder.

"Kai. Go see what it is." and Kai approached, sword pointed up. His fur armor was useful for the winter season, unless you had armor like Rognar, a mixture of fur and steel.

Kai looked at where it came from, and saw it. It was a black basket, one that people brought on picnics. Korir had been one before, when he was a younger man, and a Thane, a young bannerman, and when his father died, he ascended to it. But enough thoughts about that, he was curious and he cocked his head.

"Rognar. What in Oblivion is a picnic basket doing here?" asked Korir, for he was dumbstruck. The picnic basket also had a bow tied to it, and a small kite was dancing in the wind.

"I don't know my Jarl." Rognar replied, a little annoyance in his voice. Korir smiled sheepishly, for it was a rhetorical question.

"Kai. Go see what it is." and Kai opened the basket, and his face flashed between anger, sorrow, confusion, and then pity. Korir watched the young warrior gingerly pick up the basket, and sauntered over the Jarl, before bowing.

"What is it Kai?" Korir asked. His hands were now tucking Winter's Warmth back into his scabbard on his back. The banner of Winterhold flapped freely in the breeze, and the winter started to look like spring, to the untrained eyes.

"Its a he." and Kai put the darling basket down, before leaning down and grasping something, gently. The "he", was wrapped in a bundle of cloth, and wailing.

"Let me see." and Kai handed the bundle to Korir, who received it from Kai. Looking down, he saw it was a newborn babe. He was big, and his skin a dirty crusty blue. But the young babe wailed with strength unheard from the north, and Korir smiled. _It has been a long time since I have seen this type of strength, _he thought. The babe's crystal blue eyes cut through him like a sword forged from the Skyrforge itself, and his black hair danced wildly in the wind. The babe was now silent, for his blue crystal eyes met Korir's own.

"He is a Nord, just like us." Korir proclaimed, and he was relieved as well. If it had been any other child of any other race, except maybe, Khajiit, they would have froze to death.

"What shall we do with him?" asked Kai.

"I don't know. We have no idea who his father is, and I am wondering what to do with him." Korir said. _What do I do with a suckling babe?_

"I'll take him." a new voice said, proud. Korir looked, and saw a giant Orc. His skin was green, as green as the forest, but his mouth was in a snarl. A playful aura though overtook him.

"Uruk!" Korir said with joy. The old Orc was adorned in Orchish Heavy Armor, and his hands were slick with sweat.

"I was just coming to visit you Korir. The night is young, and mead will warm my body. My son, Urak, has taken the Thanehood or Thaneship, it really doesn't matter." Uruk grumbled.

"Why did you give up your seat?' asked Korir puzzled. He was looking at the heavy Orc with curiosity, for the Orc was unusually quiet.

I'm getting old. I plan on retiring in Winterhold, and aiding in training the young ones for battle." said the Orc. "If it pleases the Jarl, I intend to raise the child myself, and train him in the ways of the Orsimer."

"Ah, you die if you retired anyway. Go on ahead. But first, we walk." and so they did. Winterhold was on its way towards greatness, and the Nord in the bundle would be a guard, like so many other Nords before him.

"What should we name him?" asked the Orc.

"His name shall be, Norok. For he is a fierce example of winter, resisting its cold embrace." Korir said.

"A fine name. He will be a good guard." Uruk replied.

Fate, Korir thought, May have different plans...

**So please review, and P.M me if you want to be the beta reader or co author. Please review. At least five! Please!**


	2. Attack and Safety

195 4E

Twelve years old, Norok Demon's- Blood had grown. He was broad, and now carrying an iron sword and a wooden shield. The twelve year old was now outside the Jarl's Longhouse, waiting for someone.

_When is she going to get out?_

He was beginning to become more impatient, and watched the winter city begin to wake. As he watched the slowly falling snow, a girl, with silver hair, gold eyes, and snow white skin, open the entrance to the Longhouse. Seeing that the boy was distracted, she slowly crouched down, seeing the boy was not paying attention. Slowly she went down, waiting for her friend to turn around.

"Boo!" she shouted, and Norok didn't look amused.

"That trick worked when we were seven, understand Sandra." The black haired Nord said. He was tall, around five foot six, and towered over Sandra by almost a foot.

"Whatever Nordic fool." she said, playfully. The half-Nord, half Imperial girl was the daughter of the Jarl and Daenarys, the Lady of Winterhold.

"Hey!" Norok yelled back. He was called the Bastard of Winterhold, because nobody knew who what his lineage was, and they called him bastard, but he took in stride. He was training with the esteemed Uruk of Journeyman's Nook, and was proficient with a blade and shield.

"Come on!" and she waved to the direction of the Frozen Hearth, an inn where they hung out with their friends. Norok was wearing a grey tunic, a black belt, and grey pants. Sandra was wearing a blue dress, mixed with grey, along with a cloak with the colors of Winterhold. Guards were patrolling the streets of the town as they approached the inn, where their friends Adrianna and Ulfric were staying. Both were their age, and were the children of Ulfric Stormcloak, the Jarl of Windhelm. Ulfirc was a split image of his father, while Adrianna was tiny, about five foot, had black hair from her father, and was wearing the Stormcloak colors.

"Hey Ulfric!" Norok yelled. Ulfric waved at him, while Adrianna blushed at the sight of Norok. Adrianna had been enamored with Norok for sometime now, though nobody would notice. It wouldn't work out for them anyway; Adrianna Stormcloak was a sort of princess of Windhelm, while Norok was training to become a guard.

"Adrianna!" Sandra waved, and Adrianna waved back. She then scooped Ulfric into a bone crushing hug, and Ulfric blushed madly.

"Hey Sandra!" Adrianna said back, and then went over to the side of the inn. Ulfric followed, while Norok was trailing behind Sandra. Sandra and Norok were like brother and sister, and Norok protected her.

"So what are we going to do today?" asked Adrianna. She was the adventurous one, while Sandra was the cautious one. Ulfric was also the adventurous one, while Norok was the guardian of the little group of friends.

"Stormcloak!" a crisp voice cut through the winter's cold. It belonged to a local bully. He was huge, sixteen and a drunk. Norok was nowhere to be seen, but everyone knew he was taking a piss. The bully and three and his friends were there, clad in black armor, made of leather. They were the sons of the richest Nords in Skyrim, and they thought everything was entitled to them.

"What do you want Asan?" Ulfric asked. His hands were on his iron sword, and he was okay at it. But Asan had a huge sword, an Ancient Nordic Great Sword. The color was a simmering blue, and the blade was polished and sharp.

"I want Adrianna. Give her to me, and me and my boys won't mess your little bear ass!" he threatened. Ulfric was taken aback, for though Asan was a bully and an ass, he never ever threatened his twelve year old sister.

"No!" the anger of the Stormcloaks suddenly broke through of Ulfric. Ulfric Stormcloak II was now fuming, his Stormcloak anger coursing through the veins, making him even angrier.

"Fine with me. Time to do this the old way. Boys with me!" and he unsheathed his giant sword, honed to be superior to the regular ones that the Draugr were armed with.

"Adrianna! Take Sandra and head to the Jarl's Longhouse!" and Adrianna broke into a run, taking Sandra's hand, and started a fast sprint towards the Longhouse. The guards were nowhere to be seen, because someone had drawn their attention.

"Boys! Get them! I want teddy bear for myself." and the rich Nord boys tore into a run, gaining even more speed. They were trudging in the snow filled road, and one of them was right about to grab Sandra's shoulder when an unknown force gripped his shoulder and threw him back.

"You think you can harm them!" yelled the voice. The boy who was about to answer received a blow to the gut. The hardened fur gloves of Norok then gripped his shoulders and slammed him into the snow.

"No one harms my friends!" and Norok flourished his sword from his scabbard, and moved to protect the girls.

"We want the girls Bastard." one of them spat. Norok spun his blade in an arc, and advanced forward.

"You want them? You are going to have to get through the Bastard of Winterhold." and the three boys charged. Norok grasped his iron sword with both hands, fighting without a shield for the first time in his life.

The first boy was wielding an iron greatsword and using its bigger reach, aimed a high thrust to Norok's side. Norok dodged it, twisting to the side, before bringing his blade to the side of the boy. The boy dropped his sword to dodge the swing to his side, and as he did this, he snatched his blade again. But Norok was right on him, smashing him in the face with his boot.

"Ahh!" the boy yelled in pain as the pitter patter of blood dripped from his mouth. Norok then grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around, making him face first in the dirt. Norok's ancient Nord blood helped him with the cold, and brought his boot again on the boy's face, knocking him out. The snow continued to fall, and blanketed the street. Norok then turned his attention the other two Nord boys. Both were armed with iron swords, and Norok came charging in, and slashed forward, jarring one of the boys. The bastard then rolled to the ground, and appeared behind the boys. Grinning, and bitter rage running through him, he came forward, slashing at both of their knees.

"Now. The Bastard of Winterhold has bested all of you. Get out and take your worthless friend with you." and the boys fled to the Frozen Hearth, where they hid.

Ulfric Stormcloak II and Asan were circling each other, waiting for one of the other to make the first move. Ulfric inhaled sharply, making note of the snow making his breath visible. Asan then charged forward, his blade raised high. Ulfric raised his blade to parry, and Asan's blade pinged of his. Both boys were equally matched, and Asan rained four blows on him, and Ulfric blocked them all.

"Die now Stormcloak dog!" Asan yelled, and Ulfric slashed forward, the iron weapon recoiled off the greatsword. Asan then aimed a thrust straight for Ulfric's heart, but Ulfric spun to the side, barely dodging it. Ulfric then went for a looping overheard blow, and managed to cut right into Asan's greaves. As the snowflakes drifted slowly down, Asan started to bleed, the blood the Nede starting to redden the white powder of Winterhold.

"You'll pay for that Stormcloak!" and he brought his sword down in a crashing matter, breaking straight through the iron of Ulfric's weapon. Ulfric managed to let go of the weapon, and was thrown to the ground.

"Now. Stormcloak dog. I want your sister. And I want her now!" raged Asan.

"If you want her so badly, you'll have to go through me." and Asan looked to see Norok, his iron sword splattered with blood. His gloves were seeping with blood, and the young Nord had a rage that rivaled the Stormcloaks.

"Fine with me bastard." and he shot straight forward his blade aiming for Norok's heart. Norok blocked it up, and smashed his elbow straight into the leather chest-plate of the man. Asan staggered to one knee, but brought his blade up to block the blow from Norok, the steel ringing. Norok then spun to the side, lighting fast, and dodged another blow to his heart.

"Stay...still!" and Asan brought his sword came crashing down, but Norok side-stepped to the side, defiantly refusing to go down. Time then slows to a crawl, as Norok raises his blade, bringing his blade down on Asan's head, cracking him in the skull.

"No one, and I mean no one, messes with my friends." and Asan learned this. After this, no one messed with Norok, the Bastard of Winterhold.

Jarl Korir watched from the second story of the Longhouse.

"That boy just brought down four larger boys with his sword Uruk." the Jarl said. His hair was slightly graying, and his friend and mentor, Uruk Demon's-Blood was right next to him.

"I trained him, but I have never seen in all my years, that kind of martial prowess in one so young." and Korir nodded in agreement.

"The boy has strong loyalties. He also has a temper like a Stormcloak." Korir said, and Uruk laughed. Daenarys then appeared, carrying a young girl on her hips, The Lady of Winterhold was still young looking, and her silver hair flourished in the snow of the North.

"And he is the big brother to Sandra." Daenarys interjected. The Lady liked Norok for his fierceness and loyalty, and thought the boy would make a great guard.

"And do you see the way Adrianna looks at him?" Uruk said, and the two gasped.

"And do you see yourselves gossiping like milk-maidens?" asked a voice. It belonged to a servant, a young woman in her twenties, and was married to the local blacksmith.

"Ah, Brenda. It is always nice to hear you." Korir said, smiling broadly. The Jarl was always impressed by the young woman's bluntness and disregard for class in Skyrim.

"Likewise my Jarl. So you are talking about the Bastard?" asked Brenda.

"Yes, the Bastard of Winterhold they tell me. Why they call him bastard, I will never know." Uruk said. He was currently the Master of Arms at the Keep that been built next to the Longhouse, training the young prospective youths of Winterhold. He was currently training around seventeen youths, including Norok. Norok was his best student, and he was proud of the boy. Norok lived with him and he spent countless hours sparring with Uruk. Many of the boys at the Keep always complained about this, even though nobody would ever dare confront Norok about it.

Korir again nodded in agreement and stalked to the window. There, Adrianna and Sandra were taking care of Ulfric, while the guards returned to their posts, not even casting a glance at the trio. Norok was talking with a bearded man, in Jarl's clothing.

Norok was talking with Ulfric Stormcloak, the Jarl of Windhelm. He was currently in Winterhold to improve relations between the two holds, because though many tried to deny it, war was coming, and the Winter battalions of Winterhold would bring in major advantages in the upcoming war. The current High King, the Jarl of Solitude, was a weak boy, and bowed to the Empire's demands.

"So Norok. Who trained you?" asked Ulfric. His ancestral sword, Bear's Vengeance, was in a finely made gold black scabbard. Norok's own sword was in his black scabbard, and he answered with a sense of pride.

"I was trained by Uruk Demon's-Blood, my foster father. I am a Demon's-Blood by name. He did me a great favor in bringing me in." Norok said with admiration.

"Uruk Demon's-Blood? A bloody Orc? That's surprising, for I thought most of the Orcs in Skyrim were either in the strongholds or bandits." Ulfric then stroked his beard.

"Yes, he is a _bloody _Orc. What's wrong with that?" asked Norok, slightly angry. Ulfric was taken aback by this.

"Orcs have no reason to be in Skyrim. Skyrim belongs to the Nords." Stormcloak said. Norok was growing more angry by this.

"I was raised by him. He brought me in, when I was a babe. He is my father, in everything but blood. This conversation was over."

"Who the hell do you thing you are?" asked Ulfric, his eyes gleaming with anger.

"I am the Bastard of Winterhold. And I am done with you."

**Please Review. I have no idea what the hell this chapter was about, but I wrote about it as a filler. Next chapter will be out tomorrow or tuesday!**


	3. Hear me Roar!

201 4E

The Jarl of Windhelm was pacing back and back forward. He was about to do it. His guards were in Dragon's Bridge, waiting for him to come to them, while his Housecarl, Galmar Stone-Fist, was watching over Windhelm and his children.

_I can't even call them children._

Ulfric Stormcloak II was now as big and broad as his father, while Adrianna was now a maiden, flowered and ready to see the world. Stormcloak II was the Thane Of Windhelm, and the Captain of the Guards. He had earned his position, even solving a series of murders, and killing the murderer himself, a man who had lost his sister and was trying to resurrect her. He was also a Stormblade in the Stormcloak army, though the bulk of his men were from his bannermen, such as Jarl Dengeir of Stuhn, and Jarl Skald the Elder. Korir had not sworn for no one, and his armies were still stationed in Fort Kastav, Fort Fellhammer, and Driftshade Refuge, also a small town. Winterhold could boast over six thousand men, and Ulfric wanted those men. Whiterun was also neutral, though its Jarl, Balgruuf the Greater, was leaning to the Empire.

He had been planning this for months, sending envoys to his bannermen, and raising more and more men. His armies currently stood at a strong thirty thousand men, most of them from Windhelm and Dawnstar. Riften had sworn for him, though in secret, and Falkreath's armies were in support of him as well. After killing Torygg, he would escape by a small side-gate, tended by a loyal Nord, and escape with his guard to Windhelm. Helgen, a small village in the Whiterun Hold, would be avoided at all costs. As soon as he managed to reach Dragon's Bridge, he would send ravens to the his bannermen to start the attacks, and try to catch the Empire off-guard. Though the arrival of the 4th Legion, lead by General Tullius, had thrown off his plans a little, he planned to destroy the Legion in some way or form.

He wanted a free Skyrim, one to worship Talos as they damned please, and to kick the minorities out of Skyrim, or make sure they knew who ruled the land. The Empire had bowed down to those damn High Elves, and he planned to make sure they paid for the Great War.

Adrianna was going through suitors, most of them were Carls from the south, such as Falkreath and Whiterun. She was strong, beautiful, and stubborn, just like her mother. Stormcloak was armed with Bear's Vengeance, waiting to challenge Torygg. But her heart always belonged to the Bastard of Winterhold, Norok Demon's-Blood of Journeyman's Nook. His foster brother was the Thane of the large town, and his foster father was dead, from a duel with his foster child. He had declared himself too old to live, but managed to die a good death.

_That bastard, _he thought. The Bastard of Winterhold's conversation with the man still haunted him. The way he spoke with scorn in their chat. Adrianna loved the bastard though, and Ulfric was all that stood in the way of them being together. He didn't care though, so the bastard could be content in Winterhold, as the Captain of the Guard.

He was now in the Blue Palace, the soft velvet curtains, the soft servants, and the lax guards. High King Torygg, just a boy really, was sipping wine as he sat lazily on his throne.

"High King Torygg!" he shouted and the High King acknowledged his presence.

"What is Stormcloak?" asked the boy, twirling his jeweled goblet.

"I challenge you for the throne. As Jarl of Windhelm, and as the head of Clan Stormcloak, I Ulfric Stormcloak, wish to see you on the ground, twitching like a dead man." Ulfric said, and the court gasped.

"I accept. I'll show you how a true Nord fights, you damn whelp!" and the King jumped off his throne, and drew his clan's ancestral sword, King's Jewel, and stabbed forward. Ulfric summoned the strength in his voice.

"Fus, RO!" and a blue shock-wave erupted from Stormcloak's throat, making Torygg stagger. Ulfric then drew Bear's Vengeance, the Skyforge steel glimmering in the low light room. The guards were shouting, but couldn't stop the duel, like some invisible force was keeping them at bay. Ulfric clutched his sword with both hands, and swung up, catching Torygg on the shoulder. Torygg wore no armor, unlike Ulfric, who was clad in Skyforge steel-plate armor. His head was kept bare, for he wanted to see his opponent's death for himself.

"Arghh!" the King muttered in pain. He then raised King's Jewel and charged forward, until Ulfric ended it.

"Fus, Ro Dah!" he shouted and the sound of a thunderstorm arrived, and Torygg was thrown back. The King crashed straight into his throne. He was now a bloody mess, where Ulfric's sword had sliced him, and the impact from his crash into the throne.

"Now you die." and he thrust his sword straight into Torygg's heart. It was fast, bloody, and Ulfric ran faster than he ever did in his life.

"Wuld!" he shouted and he moved as fast a tempest. Barging straight through the doors to the Blue Palace, and straight down the path to the side-gate. The guards were chasing him, and he watched as several pulled out bows and stopped, firing arrows. One of them managed to scratch his armor, but he still sprinted. Adrenaline was pumping into his veins, and he dodged several groups of people.

Passing the Winking Skeever, he skidded down a narrow alleyway, and dashed straight forward, where the side-gate was located. The guard was there, clad in the colors and arms of Solitude.

"Hurry!" and the side-gate opened. The small gate was iron and he dashed straight for it. The shouts of the Solitude guards and the now arriving Legionnaires, were coming closer, and the guard drew his imperial sword. It shone in the sun, and the guard was obviously skilled with the weapon. The first Solitude guard charged forward, his greatsword whirling in an arc. The guard that had betrayed his Jarl for Stormcloak blocked it, and thrust his sword forward. The blade fell the man, and the Solitude guard fell three more men in like-wise fashion. Ulfric barged straight through the gate, and before he left, he turned around.

"What's your name, son of Skyrim?" asked Ulfric. He owed the man his life, and he wanted to remember him.

"Roggvir of Solitude. And you owe me nothing, High King." and he turned to face the Legionnaires rushing straight at him. Ulfric dashed right into the road, running towards Dragon's Bridge. He rushed past startled travelers, Legionnaires, even a Khajiit Caravan. His guards were already there, fighting off several Solitude guards. He ran straight forward, killing one, and leaped onto his horse, his guards falling in behind him, and the Sons of Skyrim ran straight forward, ignoring all of the arrows.

Arriving at Windhelm, they dismounted, and Ulfric was glad to see the city. The Throne of Ysgramor was waiting for him. The massive city was built on the banks of the White River, where the fleets of Clan Cruel-Sea sailed up and down, leading to the seas connected by the river. Kynesgrove was also near by, the small mining village being a source of great wealth to the Jarl.

The blizzards were picking up again, as he and his small guard of fifteen men arrived in the city. The city held over a hundred thousand people easily, and its position meant that it was almost impossible to siege. The only way into the city was from the south and north, and the northern passages were controlled by Winterhold, while the south was only connected by a single bridge. In order to siege the city, you would need to build more bridges across the river, while warding off arrows, stones, and Eastmarch men. The banner of Windhelm, a snarling bear greeted Ulfric Stormcloak, and his heart lifted a little. _It is time. I am the true High King of Skyrim, and we will worship Talos, even if I have to go the Summerset isles, and bring down their damn Crystal Tower myself!, _he thought, as one of his men yelled at the gatekeeper.

"Open the gates! The Jarl of Windhelm has arrived!" yelled the guard. It was one of his men, an Unblooded, and he had shaggy blonde hair, and a fierce Nordic honor. His name was Ralof, if Ulfric could recall.

"Open the gates!" yelled the gatekeeper, and the iron portcullis opened, followed by the oaken gates. Ulfric walked into the city, and watched the massive city unfurl before his eyes. Around the entrance to the gate was a crowd of people, at least a couple hundred. All were being kept back by the Windhelm men, and his Stormcloaks. Soon his men would take the field, and he would be the High King, the true ruler of Skyrim, and Talos would be restored.

"Ulfric! Ulfric!" they chanted, all of them but one. It was an older Nord, and his hair was already starting to white. His name was Brunwulf Free-Winter, of clan Free-Winter. He was a former Legionnaire and his men were loyal to him. Clan Free-Winter were the stewards to the Stormcloaks, until Ulfric had ripped Brunwulf from his post, and appointed Joreleif his steward. He hated Brunwulf, for he was the only clan head that had not sworn loyalty to him, but he didn't care. Clan Free-Winter could only boast a small guard, and couldn't incite anything.

All of the crowd knelt, even Brunwulf, though Ulfric could see disdain in his eyes. Ulfric let them kneel for a few moments before raising his arm.

"I come before you today. Today, I put in my claim as the High King of Skyrim! Today, I call for all of Skyrim to rebel against the weak Empire. Today, we fight for a free Skyrim! Today, we restore the worship of Talos! Long live Talos! Long live Skyrim!" he chanted, and the crowd went wild.

"Long live Talos. Long live Skyrim! Long live High King Ulfric!"

Ulfric was now ready. His armies would march, and they would smash the Empire, and Talos would be proud, as the snow from the blizzard came drifting in. His new title, Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm, head of Clan Stormcloak, and High King of Skyrim. He was the true High King, for Skyrim has not had a true one in generations. All of them had been picked by the Empire, to put forward their own policies.

Ulfric approached the Palace of Kings, where the snow covered palace greeted him. Opening its doors, he was greeted by a long feast table, made of stone, his throne, and the banner of Windhelm hanging over it. Galmar Stone-Fist, was wearing the new Stormcloak officers uniform. It had a pair of light armor gloves with thick, metal plates. They are brown leather, and each have six large metal spikes going up in pairs, and three claws coming out of the knuckle, while a pair of light armor boots, made of brown leather with large, spiked metal plates held on by leather straps going up the legs. The helmet was a bear's head that goes over the wearer's head like a hood.

His Stormcloaks wore the guard's armor, but with t has a noticeable blue cloth that wraps around the quilted armor underneath it with leather belts fastening around the torso. It also has chainmail underneath the quilted part of the armor for extra protection. Several of his new Stormcloaks, the Unblooded, were now in front of the throne, waiting for him.

"Galmar! How are the new Unblooded?" he asked. The Unblooded had joined, and they had been sent to the north, to a faraway island to test their resolve and loyalty. Winterhold was neutral in the conflict coming ahead, but they let the Stormcloaks go up there anyway, as long as they kept it secret.

"Good men. They'll have the ice flowing through their veins yet!"Galmar chuckled. Ulfric chuckled as well.


	4. The Beginning

**Thank you Boys Do Like Girls for reviewing, favoriting, following, and subscribing. You have been a huge influence and inspiration for me in this fic. I changed the storyline completely as well(concerning Norok and the DragonBorn, the Jarl of Winterhold is still the same., so stay tuned.) Thanks for KrystylSky and TheNoWhereMan. Also for those that think Galmar is out of character in this one, *Only of you think that, because if not then cool.) But Galmar doesn't care what race you are. He lets you fight as any race, doesn't matter which one it is. When I asked him if he fought only for Nords, his response was awesome. I fight for a free Skyrim. Awesome right? Not like the racist Ulfric. If it was Galmar in charge of the Stormcloaks, then I would gladly support them. I fight for a Skyrim where I can worship whoever I damn please! Except if you are Forsworn and worship Daedra. Then you can go fuck yourselves. For Ulfric Stormcloak II's armor just imagine that it is the Stormcloak Curiass with bearskin on it. And I forgot that I wouldn't include Galmar in this chapter. Plus a huge shoutout to DraGonnized, the writer of Clad In Blue. Major inspiration for The Black Banner, which will be updated this week sometime. Cheereo! That was my copying of Shaun from Assassins Creed. Anyway, onto the story. Sorry for this awful authors note with the bad grammer. Didn't even spell grammer right most likely. **

Ulfric Stormcloak II POV

Ulfric Stormcloak II was at the hill overlooking the city he called home. The shrine of Talos was looking over the city, like a sort of guardian to the city. Windhelm was still asleep; The Thane of Windhelm was a younger version of his father, standing proud. The heir to the Jarldom of Windhelm was praying to Talos, for he was a devout. He didn't necessarily agree with his father on his ideals for the civil war; but he believed in a country where he could worship Talos, and he that was why he fought. The low glow of the morning sun that was rising out from the Sea of Ghosts, as the twin moons started their morning slumber.

"Talos, help us. Smile down on our cause, for we fight for you." The young Thane then stood up, brushing snow from his Stormcloak armor, the bearskin on the armor bristling with winter. His blue sash was crossing diagonally across his body while his shield was on his back, the fierce bear of Eastmarch making a menacing look against his enemies. Ulfric was proud of himself, for he was only eighteen, but he was the Thane of Windhelm, and a Carl, very unusual for one of his age. But he was a Stormcloak. The gentle snow was now blanketing over the city, massive as it was. The docks of Windhelm held the longships of the Stormcloak Navy, which was manned by men from Clan Shatter Shield, whos leader, Torjborn, was the Thane of White Knife, a small settlement that was directly adjacent across the River from Windhelm.

Talos seemed to smile down as the statue seemed to glow with warmth and pride. Ulfric took this as a good sign, and he bent the knee once more before making his way done the hill towards the bridge. A dozen guards, all wielding the shields of the Stormcloaks, were at the bridge, watching it with a vigilance. The Argonian dockworkers, with their green scales slimy with sweat, as they lifted the heavy crates and barrels onto the longships. Ulfric knew what his father was planning; it was the naval invasion of Solitude in order to end the war.. Ulfric thought his father mad; it would do better to use that navy to keep its eye on the Winterhold Hold. Solitude was heavily defended, and the Imperial Navy would be heavily patrolling it.

As the gate to the City of Nords as it was now called, for the Argonians were being pushed out, while the Mer where pushed into the Stone Quarter, opened, he thought about his father, the first Ulfric. He had to overlook his father's racism, for it was for the good of Skyrim that Talos be restored to his rightful place and the the Thalmor be pushed back to their damn Crystal Tower. Their insolence at declaring Talos not a god.

He made his way into the city, stopping to see the lights of Candle Hearth Inn dance around a glaze. As he was about to make his way past the Inn, he heard angry words and the sound of a punch. Unsheathing his sword, a longsword made of Skyforge Steel, he made his way. Anyone who was out stayed out of his way, for they all knew of the Thane's ways. If you got in his way, he would ask politely that you either move out of the way or receive a sword in the gut.

It was coming from near the city gate. Two Nords, dressed in rough linen shirts, along with grey breeches were beating the living days out of an Dumner,most likely one of the merchants from the Grey Quarter. Their knuckles were bruised and bloody, and they were shouting curses and racial slurs.

"Come on you elf slut, cast some fancy magic for us!" one of them yelled. Ulfric realized it was Galmar Stone-Fist's brother, Rollf. The damn drunk Nord. The Dumner was wearing blue mage's robes, which surprised Ulfric. Not many mages passed through the city, most of them heading towards the College in the resurgent Winterhold.

"She can't do crap Rolff. Not without her precious magic." said the other. He was wearing a rough spin tunic, and an steel mace hung from his hip. His balding head sort of shined in the morning sun. He was beating down on the Dumner mage. Ulfric thought back to his best friend Sandra. He had a boyhood crush on the young woman, who was now a free spirit. Ulfric cleared his throat. He was not going to tolerate racism in this city! As he looked closer, the sight tore his breath away. The Dunmer mage was beautiful, with dark ebony hair that flowed down to her shoulders, long silk robes on, while even when she was crying her tears of black, the red ruby eyes sparkled like diamonds.

"You boys. Do you really think that you can beat down on poor elven woman?" Ulfric asked. The two Nords didn't even look up. Both scoffed in annoyance.

"Look, whoever you think you are, get out. No room for heroes." and the rough spin tunic one got up and grasped his mace. He didn't recognize the young Thane. Ulfric took this as a sign of luck. It was time to kick some racist ass.

"I'm not a hero. Just someone who stands to do the right thing." and Ulfric's memory flashed back to the scene back in Winterhold, when his father was in Winterhold. The view of his sister running, him on the ground, the fresh snow drenched with blood as Norok flashed his steel. The red sword in the background. What in hell was that red sword doing there?

"I don't know who you are, or what in the Divines made you brave enough to confront us. We are true Nords! Angrenor! Kill the bastard!" and the bald warrior drew his mace. Ulfric now knew who Angrenor. Ulfric boasted how the man had saved him in the Great War, and had managed to kill six men at once. His skill must have diminished from all the years from of dormant non-fighting, but no Nord forgets their training. Angrenor was as good as his father, if better.

"With pleasure." and Angrenor unsheathed his mace and swung it towards Ulfric. Ulfric's steel flashed as well and both struck each others weapons like a chorus of angels. Angrenor growled before swinging low, before feinting to the left. Ulfric didn't take the fake and smashed his fist across Angrenor's face, drawing blood. Angrenor roared in pain, and faced Ulfric again, his mace whirling in a mad arc.

"Die you damn traitor!" and the mace smashed straight into the side of Ulfric's armor. The mail underneath the armor managed to stop the mace from penetrating the rest of his body, but the mace left a nasty bruise. Ulfric felt a flicker of pain, the waves. He ignored it to the best of his abilities before taking his stance. He then slashed to Angrenor's right, the sword traveling at a fast rate. Angrenor nimbly dodged to the left, stunning Ulfric for Angrenor was a big fellow. Angrenor counterattacked with a dash of blows that left Ulfric breathless.

A small crowd of spectators had been gathering about, watching the Stormcloak heir and the once revered and honored Angrenor do battle. A few guards, the Winter Guard, the ones who guarded this section of the city, were also there, having wretched Rollf off of the Dunmer mage and slapping cuffs on the fucker and sending him to the Windhelm jail. Several were also keeping the crowd from intervening. Ulfric approved of this for Nords always finished their fights.

_This guy is too fast, _he thought, ducking under the whirling mace. Ulfric parried the next blow, letting the shock travel up his spine like a shock wave. Ulfric attacked with several blows against the steel mace of Angrenor, but Angrenor, having superior skill and training, had the upper hand. Ulfric was not reduced to just parrying the blows, for he was unable to attack.

A Winter Guard captain, wearing the shield of Eastmarch, shoved back a big sized man, roughly six foot and had a massive chest and a massive belly. He was dressed in dark silver plate armor, with ancient Nordic runes decorating it. His long face was decorated with three lines of blue war paint across his forehead, and his dirty auburn hair was in braid. His deep golden eyes held contempt and hatred for the was Ulfric's shield brother and Housecarl, Jeris Stone-Fist, Galmar's son of twenty-three.

"Let me past you damn guard." Jeris boomed and his octave lowered voice scared the guard Ulfric saw before parrying another blow. His arms were starting to tire and Angrenor seemed to have a inexhaustible amount of energy. Ulfrics own seemed to started to drain as another blow rained down at his defenses.

"They need to settle their differences." the guard shakily replied as Jeris drew his massive hammer. It was made of stone and steel, and Jeris was proud of it.

"You have five seconds to get out of the way before I smash you guts in and feed to the bloody hagravens!" threatened Jeris. Ulfric knew that Jeris would do that. A drunken night in Riften confirmed that when he had to fix Jeris's mess. And in the end, it earned them a bloody staff with a freaking rose at the end of it. The first thing Jeris did was summon a Dremora to cut Sanguine's throat. Of course, the Daedric Prince survived it. Ulfric knew he couldn't win at everything.

"No Carl Stone-Fist. Nordic law dictates that..." but he was cut off when Jeris roared his battle cry. The Winter Guard captain whimpered in fear, and Jeris pushed him out of the way. Ulfric dashed under a spinning cut to his face and Jeris roared his famous cry before drawing his hammer and smashing straight into the arm of Angrenor, making him drop his mace. Angrenor grasped his now bloody hand with the other before Jeris roared in anger and dropped the hammer and gripped Angrenor's neck with his massive hand. The arm that was connected to the hand was a stout as a tree trunk and Angrenor started to squeeze.

"Now you fucking beggar. Tell me why you were trying to kill the fucking _heir to Windhelm!" _and Angrenor did a double take.

"He is the Thegn?" Angrenor asked and Jeris nodded.

"He is. He is the fucking heir to the throne of Ysgramor." Jeris spat with rage. The massive ice covered stone walls of Windhelm seemed to be getting closer to Ulfric for some reason. The majestic stone bridge, frozen solid in some spots, connecting it the southern bank of the White River seemed to holding its breath.

"I'm sorry Thegn," and Ulfric smiled.

"It's quite alright. Next time, don't be smashing poor mages. Because if you do, I'll make sure you get the sword." and Ulfric nodded towards the guards. The crowd had dispersed, and Ulfric was walking towards the downed mage. Wuunferth the Unliving, the court mage, in his blue mage robes and his long knotted beard were hunched over, patching the poor Dunmer up with restoration magic.

"What is the damage?" Ulfric asked, kneeling next to Wuunwerth. The old mage looked back at Ulfric, his dark ebony eyes briefly scanning Ulfric before snapping his attention back to the Mer.

"She is fine. All her injuries have been healed and her vitals are fine. I'll be going back to the palace." and Wunnwerth started up.

"Wait!" and Wunnwerth turned to face Ulfric.

"What boy?!" and Ulfric silently smiled at that. Wunnwerth had that contempt for all non-magic people. He still called his father that, and that made Ulfric rant and rave for hours on end. But in the end, both men realized that Wunnwerth was right. Both were still boys.

"What do you want me to with her?" asked Ulfric for he had no idea what to do. Wunnwerth slapped his face with his hand before muttering something about him wiping the asses of the Stormcloaks since the birth of the Bear.

"Take her to the Inn! Do something! Fuck her! Rape her! Kill her! Abandon her! Do something her for Divines's sake!" and Wunnwerth stomped off. Ulfric just shrugged before scooping the small mage in his hands. She had dark eyelids, light blue skin, dark ebony hair that seemed to flow with the dark winds of Windhelm. As she stirred in his arms, he headed to the familiar and comfortable glow of Candlhearth.

Opening the small wooden door, the roars of laughter and drunken Nords brawling was rushed towards him, as the smell of vomit and spilled alcohol greeted him as well. The owner of Candlehearth, a Nord woman by the name Elda. Not very familiar to Mer, but was very reasonable with gold.

"What can I do for you?" she asked, before eyeing the Dunmer mage in Ulfric's arm. The Dumner mage was snuggling against the hardened body of Ulfric, and Elda was extremely distrustful of her. Ulfric saw the disgust in her eyes.

"I need a room for this young woman," and when Elda was about to speak up, Ulfric held up his hands.

"I will give you one hundred septims for the room for two days." and Elda shut her trap, and accepted the gold without a second thought.

"Her room is the first one on the left. Finest one we have in the Hall." and she lead them to it. It had a queen sized bed, with a small nightstand. A cabinet was on the northern side of the room, and a small hearth fire was burning. It was the nicest room in the entire room.

Elda left the two and Ulfric gingerly lowered the young mage onto the bed with grace. The mage stirred slightly once again, and Ulfric noticed that there was a small rocking chair in the corner. Huffing towards it, he slid into it and quietly fell asleep, remembering the way Sandra used to sing to him when they were children.

As the noon sun rose to the highest point above the mountains of Skyrim, the Dunmer mage started to stir and moan in discomfort. Ulfric's eyes shot open, his hands on his bear pommel of the sword. The longsword was out before he could stop it, and the mage's eyes also shot open.

"Who in Oblivion are you?" asked the Dunmer mage, destruction magic already forming in her hands. Her ruby eyes swirled with hate and contempt for the Nord and Ulfric didn't blame her. The small fire cackling in the fireplace seemed to feed on her energy and Ulfric realized that she seemed to be harnessing its power.

"I am Carl Stormcloak of Clan Stormcloak. Please don't kill me and I will let you leave here with all her facilities,"Ulfric chuckled at the hostility of the elf. His sword was sheathed and his shield was lying across the wood floor.

"Why are you in here?!" she demanded and Ulfric chuckled again.

"Because I'm the one who paid for your room and saved you. Do you not remember?" and Ulfric saw that the Dunmer mage's mind flash back to the terrible events that had happened.

"Why did you save me? You are a Stormcloak, are you not?" and Ulfric smiled, his snowy white teeth flashing again.

"Because I don't believe in racism. I believe in a Free Skyrim."

"A Free Skyrim?"

"One where the Thalmor have no influence. One where you can worship you godsdamn please, and one where equality runs rampant. My father will bring the first two. When he passes, then I will bring the third."Ulfric spoke with a conviction that would have made Talos proud.

"Why did you save me?" she asked, her hand on a small iron dagger.

"I saved you because I don't tolerate racism. I don't tolerate beating of defenseless people."

The eleven girl paused a moment before continuing.

"What is your actual name?"

"I didn't lie. My name is Ulfric Stormcloak the Second, Thegn and Thane of Windhelm. And now that you know mine, what is yours?" asked Ulfric. He desperately wanted to know.

"My name is Brelyna Maryon. I was traveling to the College when I stopped for the night. Those two happened onto me and they started to beat me."

As Ulfric was about to comment on that, the door was smashed open and Ulfric's Housecarl stepped into the room.

"Ulfric!" he shouted, very unnecessary because of the groans that could be heard from the other rooms.

"Yes Jeris?" asked Ulfric. _What does he want. I'm trying to have a freaking conversation with a beautiful Dunmer. Did I just say beautiful? _He shook off the thoughts before responding.

"What is it Jeris?" he asked, slightly annoyed.

"Ulfric's been captured!" and Ulfric felt a small pit of dread build in himself. If his father had been captured, then the rebellion would fail. Now he was the leader of Windhelm until his father decided to shout his way out of prison or he was able to escape somehow. Until, he was in charge of the rebels and the Eastern Marches.

_Divines help us all. _


	5. Death and Message

**Authors Note: Thanks for everyone's support! A lot of thanks to Boys Do Like Girls, for reviewing regularly. My only message besides thanking Lisana and Blood Hawk 51 for following and thanks to Lisana for having this story as a favorite, is that review! I love reviews! Thats I all ask for! So lets get two reviews for this chapter!**

Thane Aeron Black-Blade POV

The court life in Solitude had always bored him. But with the death of High King Torygg just two weeks back, and the attacks by the Jarls of the East along the Hold's borders had forced his Jarl to call every single Thane to Solitude to swear fealty. It wasn't their way, for they weren't Imperials, but who was he to question his Jarl's will. The Wood Elf, dressed in leather armor with a green cloak flattering in the wind, a longsword hanging from his hip, and a finely made Ebony bow was on his back, was walking down the main path towards the Blue Palace. His leather armor was dark and dirty, having gone weeks without bathing, conducting a campaign against the bandits based in Solitude. The Thane of Dragon's Bridge had been through Oblivion and back, and he had the wounds to prove it. A deep cut was evident across the breastplate of his armor, while multiple stab wounds had been inflicted on his arms and his cheek. He groaned with pain and annoyance as a passing Legionnaire spit at his heels. Aeron didn't give a flying damn about the Legion; they could suck eggs for all he cared. However, when the thousand or so Legionnaires in the city started to interfere with his life, he was going to draw the line.

His housecarl, a Nord by the name of Jordis the Sword Maiden, of Clan Dragon's Blood, was looking slightly sullen and he knew why. The clan's head, Jordis's father, was the Thane of Northwatch Keep, where the Thalmor had been trying to kick out the clan. Jordis's father was refusing and the Thalmor couldn't threaten war over a small keep, so they kept to the Embassy. But Aeron knew that the Thalmor would find a excuse to get him out of there, most likely that he was going to be accused of being a Talos worshiper.

_Damn Thalmor, _he scowled at the name of the most hated faction across Tamriel, and he continued on his way, his housecarl and two of his guardsmen flanking him. The crest of Clan Black-Blade, raised by Torygg's great grandfather almost a hundred years ago, was on their shields, a giant black ebony blade being encircled by a fire. His men were a mixture of Nords and Elves, and the two guardsmen were both. Aeron didn't believe in racial superiority, but he did have race pride.

A low growl escaped from a source. He looked down to see his Ice Wolf, Aros, growl at the passing Legionnaires. One of them, a recruit fresh out of basic training, and jumpy as a frog, drew his sword at the growl. The Imperial forged steel was good steel, but it couldn't match elven gold. The golden colored sword was out before the Legionnaire could even start his attack.

"Legionnaire. I request that you sheath your sword, otherwise I have to slay you for threatening my own kin." Aeron calmly said, stepping in front of the Ice Wolf, who was wound and ready to attack. Jordis's sword was out, and so was his guards. Steel was being bared, and Aeron could see in the Legionnaire's eyes that he had overextended his hand.

"Your own kin?" the Nord asked, dumbfounded. Aeron responded by face-palming himself. Wood Elves had a major connection to the natural world, for they were called Wood Elves, and Aros had always stood by him, ever since he found him abandoned by his mother for being too small. That had been seven years ago and the Ice Wolf was now over seventy pounds, and was rippling with muscle.

"Yes, us Wood Elves consider beasts to be our kin. Now, let him go, before I am forced to slay you." Aeron was twitching slightly, for he had last slayed a man about a week ago. He had been scraggy and unkempt, but he had wielded a war hammer like no other. The Orc was the chieftain of the Orc tribesmen that lived in the Haffingar Mountains, a small stronghold that had been captured by Aeron. The Orc Chieftain had been attacking caravans and slaughtering civilians. Aeron had sacrificed a lot of good men to make the Orc submit. His head had been rolling.

_A dozen great men killed, so this madman would be stopped...when will the violence end?_ Aeron thought bitterly. A dozen Legionnaires had suddenly flooded the area, lead by a Redguard, his pointed black beard bearing the signs of arrogance. Another dozen archers were lined up on the rooftops, their yew bows drawn with steel tipped death. Aeron calmly sheathed his sword.

"Tribune." Aeron greeted coldly. The Tribune was named Hazzah, and Aeron and him had been at the wrong ends of the Great War. Hammerfell. Lots of bad blood, especially since the ex Alik'r soldier blamed Aeron for being a Thalmor ally and supporter, and fighting against the Redguards a few years after the conclusion of the Great War.

_It wasn't me, it was my twin. But he will never know, for he had been slayed at the Battle of Valenwood, where Thalmor attacked Talos worshippers and he was killed by a Nord, _Aeron didn't have the heart to slander his brother's reputation, for he had been mightily praised. The local people of Dragon's Bridge had honored his memory by building a small statue in the middle of the small town. The two hundred or so people he ruled didn't hate him, but they didn't like him like they loved his brother. He had been a major celebrity, and Aeron was just the Carl in the background.

"Thane. Why were you threatening my men?" the Tribune said coldly as well. The tension was so thick, that a Daedric Sword wasn't going to be able cut through it. As the two men stared each other down, suddenly a shout was heard, and many others. The sound of clashing steel was heard, and screams were heard. Crowds were chanting and crows were flying around, diving down for their afternoon snack. The black clouds rolled over the stone ground, and lighting started to flash across the sky, and the Thane and his men ran with reckless abandon, forgetting the stand down.

It was mess. The Blue Palace was a giant brawl, Nords were attacking everybody in the streets, hundreds of refugees from the war, while elves and beast people alike were being attacked. Proudspire Manor, the home of the Thane of Solitude was set on fire, and Legionnaires were struggling to restore order. The black kite shields of the Legion were pushing against the mob of Nords trying to reach the entrance to the Blue Palace. Another crowd of Nords were pushing towards Castle Dour, where the majority of the Legionnaires were. More Nord refugees were chanting slogans.

"Free Ulfric! Free Ulfric!" they yelled, as they poured down the streets across the way to attack Castle Dour. Thane Aeron and his men continued to avoid the crowds, pushing down people that had been trying to kill him. As the rush of adrenaline pumped through his body, thunder struck across the red sky, telling the stories of death to come.

Solitude guards were being pushed down and killed by people that had been saying a friendly hello to them just a few hours ago. The Thane and his men slashed across the crowd, where the barred gates of Castle Dour awaited him. He drew his sword, and watched as the Tribune and his men raised their shields and interlocked, forming a shield wall and pushing back against the crowd heading towards their barracks. A half a dozen Nords smashed against the other gate of Castle Dour and the Thane realized something.

"Stormcloaks! These men are Stormcloaks!" he yelled, as the blue sash of a Stormcloak was shown. The crowds were being pushed back, and a Stormcloak, armed with a massive iron warhammer, stepped in front of Aeron. A Legionnaire was impaled on his own pike, and Aeron dodged to the side in order to avoid the strike aimed at his head.

"Die Elven bastard!" and the warhammer clanged against the sword. Archers on the walls started to feather the crowds with arrows, and cries of agony and pain rippled through the area. Dozens of Nords pulled out hidden daggers and maces, and started to bash their weapons against the shields of the Legionnaires. As the Stormcloak rebel yelled his battle-cry, Aeron ran his sword through him, his blade covered with thinning blood. Aeron watched in shock as the Nord fell forward, impaling further on his blade. Coughing off blood, the Nord's matted beard was now covered in blood and vomit.

"You will.. be...defeated, long live Ulfric!" and the Nord fell down limp, and Aeron knew he was no more. Pulling the ebony bow off his back, he sheathed the sword and nocked a single arrow. Firing it, it struck a lantern that had been just stringed up. The oil splattered across the armor of the Stormcloaks, who were being pushed back by the Legionnaires. Aeron was flabbergasted on how the Stormcloaks were just running around, hundreds of them disguised as war refugees, and Aeron did the only thing he knew he had to do.

He dug into his inner reserves of magic, and his fist became a glowing hot swirl of fire. He continued to pour more and more of his magic reserves until it was humongous. He then unleashed, a feeling of pride and then horror. The fireball, a giant ball of heat and death came barreling down. The Stormcloaks were pulling back, rearing back for another charge when the fireball hit, making them all erupt into flames.

The sweet sickly smell of burning flesh smashed through the gates of his nose and poisoned his lungs. The black wisps of smoke curled from the bodies, and the Stormcloaks were all killed. Dozens were killed instantly, and Aeron counted them as the lucky ones. The others took five minutes to burn, and the black smoked corpses they left behind didn't smell any better. The surviving Stormcloaks were put down rather violently, and their bodies thrown into the sea, after being weighed down with stones. Aeron did started to organize the bodies of the Legionnaires and Solitude guards that had been killed in the fighting.

As the sun started to go down, and the majority of the bodies counted, Aeron took that as an opportunity to take a rest. His Housecarl and his two guards were at the Winking Skeever, recuperating, while he was at Castle Dour, waiting for an audience with the General. The Thane then thought back to Ulfric. Seven of his men had died the day Ulfric came and went, and he was angry. His son, a Carl that was serving as a mercenary for the Legion had just arrived at Whiterun, taking a break and hoping to join the Companions. His blood was boiling for over a hundred Legionnaires and two hundred Solitude men had died. Three hundred and forty five Stormcloaks killed, and Thane Aeron wanted more dead. His thoughts wandered to his wife, who was at Markarth, visiting her sister. Aeron didn't want her there, for the bloody Forsworn were active throughout the city, but he had relented when she agreed to bring five guardsmen with her, the best of he had to offer. He loved his wife, but he had to worry about her judgement to go to a warzone to visit her sister.

The stone walls of Castle Dour at been blackened a little by the fireball and the oil, but they non-the-less sturdy. Gripping his sword, he went in when a tired looking Atlmer Legionnaire, wearing Legion mail, bade him to enter.

"I am Tribune Runex of the 4th Legion. How may I help you Thane?" he asked politely. Aeron knew that he was tired so he went straight to the point.

"Where is Ulfric Stormcloak?" he asked, for Aeron knew that he had to be there. Why else would the Stormcloaks dare exposing themselves?

"My Thane, he is not here anywhere in Solitude. I don't where, but Legate Rikke is in charge of the Legion garrison here. She is the right hand of General Tullius, who is not here at the time as well." he explained, his dead beat eyes drooping a little. As Aeron relaxed a little, an Imperial messenger walked up to him, scroll in hand.

"Thank you Auxilary." and the Imperial messenger bowed, for the Thane was in the room. As he exited, the Tribune broke the mark of the Emperor, and started to read. His tired brow started to curl upwards, and then his eyes darted to Thane Aeron.

"What is it?" Aeron demanded impatiently. Aeron wanted answers, for good men died to fight the Stormcloaks. The damn Stormcloaks had been attacking the garrisons of Imperials, and with the fall of Fort Hraggstad to bandits, and the Thane of Fort Hraggstad fleeing to Dragon's Bridge along with a few dozen people and guards, the situation in Haffingar and Skyrim was precarious.

"It says here, that the Thegn of Windhelm as ordered a small amount of men to go to Helgen. Also it says that there are Stormcloaks starting to gather and block the major passes to the Whiterun is most perplexing. Helgen is in the Falkreath Hold, and that belongs to the Jarl of Falkreath, who had sworn fealty to him...unless General Tullius had captured it and has moved there! He should be there!" Tribune Runex felt quite proud of himself, Aeron mused.

"Why would we move there? He should have returned to Solitude right after he took it, not just stay there...wait a minute!" Aeron gasped as he put the pieces of the puzzle together. Ulfric had just been captured, and General Tullius was in Helgen. And the men being sent to Helgen by the Thegn of Windhelm?

It all occurred to him.

"Ulfric is going to Helgen. General Tullius is going to end his miserable life there." And Thane Aeron knew what he had to do. He whipped past the Tribune, sprinted out of the castle and head towards the Winking Skeever. It was going to be a long night of riding for him and his men.

Whiterun had to be warned of the Stormcloaks, and General Tullius needed to know of the Stormcloaks that had been blending in with the waves of refugees coming from the borders of the Holds. The time for reckoning was upon them.

_It is time for action. It is time for war. It is time for death to plague the land once again._

_**A little explanation of the chapter. This was a transition chapter to show why the Stormcloaks were present at Helgen. Also the Thane of Dragon's Bridge was heading to Helgen to warn him of the Stormcloaks that had been sneaking in the major cities. So not my best chapter but next chapter is the official start of Skyrim! **  
_


	6. A Clansman

**So this a huge filler chapter. This a another subplot, vital to the entire story. Next chapter will be the official start to the entire story, with the entire debacle at Helgen.**

Reker Rock-Stone P.O.V

The mountain clans of Skyrim had never been friendly to the other clans and people. They were free and worshipped Talos freely, and when the Thalmor came knocking, they sent them back to Solitude with their heads in a bag. So when Reker of Clan Rock-Stone found a badly wounded Thalmor wizard during his daily patrols down the paths of the mountain his clan had inhabited, he was at a loss to do. One thing he wanted to do was to gut her from groin to brain, but the more logical side told him to help the High Elf get better. Or was it his more stupid side?

Not minding it, he grabbed the dark robes of the Thalmor wizard, and cradled her like a baby in his massive frame. He had a dark beard that hadn't been shaved for a moons turn, along with a mop of black hair on his head. He had a bear's head draped over his square head, and his brow was furrowed into an unpleasant face. His light green eyes provided a nicer contrast to his messy face. He was young, though he had started to gain the wrinkles that many old people of Skyrim had. He had a broad chest, which was massive compared to the small petite elf he was currently carrying. His arms were thick with muscles, while his legs were as thick as tree trunks. He was the biggest man in his entire clan and village. That was what the ladies said and what the men said, but both meant very different things, his mother liked to point out. Slung across his back was a massive stone warhammer, engraved with ancient Nordic ruins and blessed by Talos. Stone was abundant in the mountain regions. Iron and steel wasn't. Those weapons were reserved for the champions and the chieftains of the clans, and Reker was the son of a lesser chieftain of the Rock-Stone clan, one of the oldest in Skyrim itself.

"It's okay elf." As he carried her to a tall oak tree, putting her down gently. Her black robes, trimmed with the gold of the arrogant elven decorum, were stained with dark, sticky blood. Reker was used to blood, after all his people were very warlike, going to war with each other many times over the years, but he wasn't a healer. The only chance the elf had of living if she healed herself. Gently nudging her, he saw the bright golden eyes of the elf flutter open, before closing again. She was breathing deeply, in and out. The tall mountains of Skyrim were no place for an elf, for they didn't have the natural resistance to cold like Nords did, and it was a lot more cold in the mountains than in the other areas of Skyrim, which was cold enough already. Grasping the fur cloak around his body, he unclasped it, and spread it onto the body of the elf, giving her some warmth. She smiled briefly, before grunting in pain, and Reker sat down, before bringing out his flint and steel.

Briefly flickering, the flame soon shot up, dancing with vigor. Smiling, he grasped it before lighting it to a rudimentary torch, creating more light. It was dark, and the overcast sky was gathering its clouds before to start a downpour of Skyrim's autumn. The storms were becoming rougher, and Reker knew that he had to get to better shelter. Sighing, he slumped against the tree, wondering what the hell he got himself into. Grabbing the massive warhammer off his back, he looked at the night sky, seeing the dark envelop the land like a vice, tightening it with its grip. The winter months would be difficult, but not unmanageable. The merchants in the surrounding areas would be flocking to the nearest city, which would be Riften in their case, and the mountain clans had an abundance of gold, for the Clans operated some of the best gold mines in the entire area. However, the clans were proud and refused to share the gold with the rest of Skyrim, which had lead to a massive invasion around two hundred years ago, which lead to the mountain clans defeating the invaders and retreating back to their winter holdfasts, strong stone keeps surrounded by stone walls, with strong stout wooden halls and houses providing dry and warm quarters for the hundreds of people living there.

Food and weapons were always a problem. But now with the Jarl of Riften raising her banners, she had sent an emissary to demand that the clans give them gold and soldiers to aid the oath breaker Stormcloak. How he hated the man. He had sworn an oath to be loyal to the High King, but instead he had murdered the poor boy. Reker was a man of five and twenty, strong and huge, and many considered him someone who was just of brute strength, but he was also smart and a learned man, having been taught to read by his grandmother and his uncle.

Sighing in anger, he heard a cough, and wheeled around to see the small petite High Elf. Her golden eyes were staring at him, with anger and he could tell she was confused. In her left hand was a ball of golden energy, which she was applying to herself. Her wounds were slowly knitting itself together, and he was amazed at the simplicity of the maneuver, not even trying to understand it. Magic was looked on with disdain in the village, for the few magic users in the community had caused untold damage in the years. Four times the village had been burned down by a magic user that was curious about his or her newfound power. Once, thousands of years ago, a magic user had actually managed to enslave the village, and it wasn't until Clan Rock-Stone and Clan Moon-Rock had rebelled and killed the mage and his cronies.

"How are you feeling?" He asked, and the Elf groaned in pain, for she was still sore. Reker snorted in laughter, and the Elf, leaving all dignity behind, got up, still in pain, and smacked him right in his beard.

"That's how I'm feeling you barbarian oaf!" She screamed in pain. Reker looked stunned for a moment, and when he saw the smug look of the Elf, he erupted in boisterous laughter, which made the golden colored Elf redden in embarrassment. He howled with amusement, his dark beard with icicles dripping from it. He was a savage man, his wild beard and his fur covered armor.

"So, how did you get here?" He asked, turning very serious. He was a worshipper of Talos, and he wasn't about to lie about it. When he had been on patrol yesterday, he had heard the telltale signs of battle, and the screams of the wounded and dying. He really didn't give a flying damn.

"Why should I tell you?" She said, not wanting to tell. _Of course, _he thought. The Thalmor wizard was a bitch most likely, but he couldn't help but feel safe and cuddly like a snow bear. Of course the snow bears inhabiting this region weren't very receptive to being cuddled, as his cousin, Bear Bait, could relate to.

"Because without me, you'll die of coldness, and if you don't, you'll die of exhaustion and starvation." Reker said matter of fact. The elf could see that he was right; after all, he was a native of the area. At least that was he hoped that she was thinking.

"Fine. My patrol had heard of the mountain clansmen that still worshipped Talos. We decided to teach you all a lesson for worshipping a false god." She said, trying to sound diplomatic.

"So you decided to pick a fight with some of the best fighters in all of Skyrim?" He asked, trying to take in the stupidity of the Thalmor. The Thalmor were a bunch of pompous assholes, he knew that, but he didn't know that they were this stupid. No wonder they were defeated by Nords and Nords in general weren't very smart; just focused on the martial arts.

"Well…Yes. We thought that if we burned a few villages and killed some of your people, you would stop worshipping him. We didn't know the layout of the land, but we thought…" And that was when Reker interrupted her.

"Listen you bloody fool. No one in all of Nirn has ever defeated us. We know the layout of the land like the back of our hands, and our warriors are some of the fiercest in the entire world. Talos is our God, and taking it from us will be difficult. No matter what, we will rise against the oppressors. We will not fight you, but bloody Oblivion, you try and take our God away, I will go to the Summerset Isles, and burn down your Crystal Tower myself!" He shouted, and all the mountains shook. Reker was not a devout of Talos, but he worshipped him because he was the God of War, and he was the only Human God. When someone tried to take him, away, Gods be damn, they would fight. The Thalmor just didn't have enough men to try and root hundreds of worshippers in the mountain regions of Skyrim. Only the Empire did, and everyone knew that General Tullius wasn't about to waste thousands of soldiers to root out some poor clans out of the mountains. He would rather let the Stormcloaks win than root out neutral people of the mountains; doing that would only serve to drive them to Ulfric.

"We will destroy you know that?" She said defiantly. Reker snorted in amusement again, before getting up, his massive frame extending to his full six foot frame. In contrast the High Elf was short, short for her race's stature, standing at only five foot ten, and was a full two inches shorter than the Nord.

"Sure. And when the return of the World Eater and the Dragonborn is here, that's when I'll even consider your words." He rolled his eyes. Drawing his massive warhammer, the Elf recoiled in alarm, before he slammed it against the tree. Snow fell from the tree and landed in heaps right on the Elf. She yelped in surprise before Reker again erupted into laughter. He was enjoying this a little too much, he thought, be he didn't give a single fuck.

"What are you going to do with me?" She asked quietly, after his laughter ended. Reker didn't know what he was supposed to do with the Elf, but he didn't really care. Most likely send her back to Solitude. Either in a body bag or perfectly fine, he still had to think about it. Stroking his beard, the young Nord shrugged in a sense of a lack of action.

"Probably send you back to Solitude. Maybe deliver you to Eastmarch or Riften. I don't know, and I really don't care. What I'm asking, is how the hell you managed to get past the Stormcloaks and the guards?" He was wondering about it. Riften was controlled by a Jarl that bent the knee to Ulfric, and had proclaimed him as High King. Plus Dawnstar and Falkreath, four holds had declared for Ulfric, giving him a huge powerbase. Whiterun and Winterhold were the only ones not declare for anyone, Jarl Korir not caring for the war, more focused on trade with High Rock and building up his relations with the surrounding holds and the major businesses in Skyrim; Whiterun just wanted to stay neutral.

Shrugging, he started to walk up the path, towards his village. The Thalmor Wizard, now fully healed, looked at him with confusion, before yelling.

"Hey, where are you going?" She asked. Clan Rock-Stone's holdfast, a small stout village about two miles away from the very spot he had inhabited, was right up the path, and he was heading there.

"To my holdfast. I don't really care about you. If you want to accompany, go ahead, but watch for your head to be shortened by a, for a lack of a better word, a head." He said. Reker was heading to his family's house, and the Thalmor wizard was a real pain in the ass. But she was pretty, so that was the major reason and probably the only reason she was still alive.

"Why?" And Reker decided to just to do the right thing.

"You know what? You stay right there. I'll drop by my house real quick, tell them that I am headed to end the Stormcloak rebellion, and then I'll head to Solitude to join the Empire. I'll drop you off at wherever you end up, and I get to gut some Stormcloaks. I come back, and resume my worship of Talos. You say anything about it; I'll end you right here and now. So you better shut the hell up, and live with it. Because if you do say anything, you better tell me right here and now, otherwise this warhammer is going where the sun don't shine." And seeing the dreaded look on the Elf, he snorted in bemusement.

"Understood." And the two started towards the village. The snow was beginning to pick up again, but he didn't mind the cold. Telling her to stay about a few thousand feet away from the village, he sprinted towards.

Clan Rock-Stone was not very powerful, but the clan it shared the village with, Clan Moon-Rock, was the lesser of the two. The two clans were the sworn bannermen of the head clan of the mountains, Clan Giant's Blood, and they were the first line of defense. The strong stout walls of the holdfast were now in sight, and he continued his way towards it. The gate opened for him, and he sprinted through the small village towards his house. Bursting through the small wooden door, his mother, a short, squat, woman with an angry look on her face, was making dinner. His father, a strong stout man of about forty to forty five, was reading a dusty book, while his sister, a large woman, around the age of twenty-five, was busy practicing with her greataxe. It was made of stone, with double bladed edges, and was massive. But then again the Rock-Stones were massive people.

"Father. I must tell you something." And with that, his family gathered around. He wondered what his parents would say, him running off to kill whoever decided to piss of the Empire. His family was loyal to the Empire, his father having been a Legionary in the Great War, but he knew that his mother would fear for his life, and his sister would most likely want to join.

"What is it son?" His father's rough voice said. Gathering his strength, he said it aloud.

"I'm joining the Legion." And with those simple five words, all hell broke loose. Sanguine couldn't have done a better job of making a normally stoic man burst into combustion. Ok, Reker thought, maybe he could.

But then again, he didn't a give a flying shit.


	7. Unbound Part 1

******Again thanks to all that reviewed. NExt chapter is up!**

**Norok Demon's Blood POV**

The blackness was now starting to give way to the light. His eyes fluttered open, wondering where in Oblivion was he. He saw endless forest, and he was in a wagon. Directly across from him was a Stormcloak, young, broad chested, and had blonde hair, loose and wild. Next to him, was a dark haired Nord, wearing a rough spin tunic. Looking down, he saw he was in binds, and the ropes bit deep into his hands and ankles. Bouncing up and down, the wagon continued its path down the dirt road, and he wondered who was next to him.

It was the one man Norok never wanted to see. The Captain of the Ice Guards truly hated one man, and one man only. The one who had opposed him at every possible way.

Ulfric Stormcloak, the Warden of the East, the Jarl of Windhelm, and the Protector of Talos, it was said. Now he wanted to be High King. Norok didn't even try to hide his disdain. Traveling down to Falkreath to locate the Jarl's daughter was not fun for the first part, but when you walked right into an ambush where two hundred Imperial Legionnaires surrounded the area and take you and your dozen companions of the caravan prisoner. Then you discover that the caravan was a hidden Stormcloak convoy heading to Falkreath, and with the man you hated the most was in it.

"Hey, you're awake." The Stormcloak was alert and his eyes were scanning the area. Norok locked eyes with the blonde Stormcloak, before looking over to the other wagons. Mounted Legionnaires, armed with staves and swords, were trailing between them and behind them. Two other wagons were lumbering, and that was when he saw the most surprising sight ever.

In the head wagon, with her hands and ankles bound together, was Sandra Winter's-Blade, the silver hair could be identified anywhere. She was in a rough spun tunic, and her hair was dirty with grime. The Stormcloaks were still in their armor, while the Imperial guard yelled at them to shut it up.

"Yes, yes I am. Thanks for getting me captured." Norok said, his disgust and disdain for the Stormcloaks showing through. The Stormcloak though, did not mind, for Norok knew that the people were loved and hated throughout all of Skyrim. People who proclaimed them as liberators from an oppressive Empire, others hating them for splitting Skyrim's people and weakening an Empire that was needed for the eventual war against the Thalmor, the enemies of all good people.

"Sorry. We had to hide for the Empire was cracking down hard on us. Ever since our defeat at Helgen, we had to hide our soldiers from the Empire in order to receive the reinforcements from the East. But when Ulfric decided to start taking trips to the front lines in order to boost the morale. We hitched a ride with the caravan you were part of." The Nord hastily explained.

"Well, thanks to you, I am about to get executed for a crime I wasn't part of." Norok smiled grimly. The Stormcloak shuffled uncomfortably.

"I'm sorry." The Stormcloak said quietly.

"You! Me and you shouldn't be here! Its these Stormcloaks the Empire wants!" Norok glanced at the dark headed Nord. He was a craven, a thief. He deserved his death.

"Shut it back there!" Yelled the guard. Of course, the thief didn't pay attention to the man. He continued to blabber, on how the Empire was nice and lazy until the Stormcloaks came along. Finally he stopped his rant when he laid eyes on Ulfric.

"Why is he so quiet?" The thief said quite loudly. An Imperial on a horse armed with a mace smacked him on the back of the head.

"Shut it will you!" The guard commanded. The thief waited for the guard to trail behind to ask it again.

"Show some respect! That is Ulfric Stormcloak, the Jarl of Windhelm, and the true High King of Skyrim!" The Nord was immensely proud of being a Stormcloak, Norok could tell, and the thief gasped.

"That means, oh gods where are they taking us!?" The Nord wailed. Norok glanced at him, his powerful gaze always unsettling.

"I don't know, but Sovngarde awaits." The Stormcloak said. Norok nodded in agreement, before being thrown to the side of the wagon as it passed over a large rock. He grunted in pain, but the numbness in his hands and ankles lessened it. Soon a walled settlement was seen, with a large powerful gate.

"Ah, the seat of Clan Reef. These people, traitors to the Stormcloaks." The sigil of Clan Reef was seen, a grand tree with dual swords crossing it, on a black background. Next to it was the insignia of the 4th Legion, a red dragon on a black background. Imperial soldiers and Clan Reef guards were patrolling the walls of the town, menacing looking. Dressed in mail and boiled leather, with the black and green sashes crossing diagonally across their armor.

"Arkay, Kynareth, Akatosh, Divines help me!" The Nord pleaded to the Divines. Norok snorted. Might as well ask for the return of the Septim bloodline.

"Get your mind into gear Nord. You must act and die like a Nord, not act and die like a coward!" Scolded the Stormcloak.

"What is your name Nord?" Asked the Stormcloak.

"My name is Norok Demon's Blood, of Clan Demon's-Blood. I am the brother in arms of Thane Demon's-Blood." Norok said, proudly for he was the only Nord in an entire clan of Orcs.

"My name is Ralof River-Stone, of Clan River-Stone. I'm from Riverwood." Norok's mind raced to see if he knew the River Stone Clan was.

"You're sister, her name is Gerdur, correct?" Asked Norok.

"Yes. She is the Thane. I have been trying to get her to persuade the Jarl of Whiterun to bend the knee to Ulfric, but she is not budging. She is loyal to Balgruuf, and when the Stormcloaks come knocking, its going to be getting tough for the man. He has to pick a side." Ralof said, and Norok nodded. Though Norok was part of the Winterhold Hold, he knew that in one point in the war, his Jarl would have to choose.

"Clan Reef's words, _Proud to be Faithful. _And yet they fight for the Empire. Those sons of cock suckers everywhere!" Ralof cursed. The guard at the top yelled something, and the gates started to open. The wild and betrayed looks of the Stormcloaks brought a little laugh to his face, before watching Ralof.

"Damn those Thalmor. They must have been the ones that would have done this!" And growling with that, Ralof turned to Norok.

"What do you think of the Thalmor?" And Norok knew his answer. His mind flashed back to Fort Amol...when the Thalmor had attacked the Fort. He had been there, feeling the heat of fire as it washed over him, and it was the reason why he hated Ulfric with all his heart. He rubbed it away, before being bumped up and down.

"I hate them." Was his simple answer. He hated them with a raw hate, one that had festered over the years.

I used to be sweet on a girl here..." And Ralof was lost in his own world. Only the yelling of the Imperial Legionnaire brought him back. The wagon had stopped, in front of General Tullius himself. His graying hair, along with his modest build, were the only things visible. Four Thalmor flanked him, along with a tall Atlmer in rich black robes. _Elenwen. The Fucking Ambassador herself. _The guard was yelling for them to get off, but they didn't. Not yet anyway. The great stone keep in the middle of the town rose up, with the banner of the 4th Legion

"End of the line, they always said. We go to Sovngarde today lad." His words were directed at the thief.

"Where are you from thief?" Asked Norok. His foster father's words rang in his head. _A person's last thoughts should be of home. _

_"_Why do you want to know?" The thief said with venom.

"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home." And the thief leaned back in the wagon. He closed his dark eyes, seemingly going back into time, and the wind made his dark hair dance.

"Rorikstead. I'm from Rorikstead." The thief said softly. Norok and the occupants of the wagon jumped off the wagon, starting towards the Legionnaires in the middle of the town. Several people were gathering right in front of the two. One was a haughty looking Redguard, with a mean scowl on her face. She was encased in Legion plate and mail, wielding a sharp and dangerous imperial sword. Another was a softer looking Nord, with blonde hair that extended down to his shoulders. He was encased in boiled leather and mail, with a skirt on. _Very Manly, _thought Norok.

"Step to the line when your name is called!" The Redguard yelled.

"Ralof of Riverwood." And Ralof sneered in the direction of the Nord, before walking off to where all the Stormcloaks were gathering.

"Ulfric of Windhelm!" And Norok knew what that meant. Not saying a Jarl's title was the ultimate disrespect. Ulfric's face was somber, as he seemed to resign to his fate.

"Lokir of Rorikstead!" And the dark haired Nord looked wild, with a sense of fear in his eyes. His eyes wildly darted from left to right, before doing something that Norok expected. He bolted and ran.

_Fool. You will never outrun the Legion. _

It was true. As soon as he bolted, madly laughing that they couldn't catch him and behead him, a dozen archers on the walls and on the arches in the village feathered him with over fifty arrows. His body thudded to the ground, blood pooling, everywhere, and the sick smell of a loosening of the bowels.

"Idiot. No one outruns the Legion." Norok heard a Stormcloak mutter. He couldn't agree more.

"You. The Nord in the rags. " The Redguard Captain pointed at him. Norok tensed up. His armor and sword had been taken away from him, and his dark raven hair billowed madly in the wind. A fresh spring breeze ruffled his rough spun tunic, as he gazed with hatred in the Redguard's eyes.

"Captain. He's not on the list." The young Nord said. Norok didn't know what was going to happen.

"What's your name Prisoner?" The Redguard asked, with a just a small hint of malice in her words.

"My name is Norok's Demon's-Blood, of Clan Demon's-Blood. I am of the city of Winterhold." And Norok felt proud. A burning sense of pride had always burned in him, ever since he was named Captain of the Ice Guards, but he never let it show. Pride before a fall his foster father always said.

"What should we do with him Captain?" Asked the Nord. Norok was not afraid to die, far from it. He had learned a long time again that he was destined to die. Everyone died. When it came knocking around the corner, you had to embrace it, or die in pain.

"Damn the list, he goes to the block!" And Norok spun on his heels, and started his way towards the crowd of Stormcloaks. A priestess of Arkay was there, readying the last words Norok was ever going to hear. General Tullius, in his bronze and gold armor, strode on his horse. He dismounted, swinging his legs to the left, before advancing to where Ulfric was. Ulfric was still there, his eyes defiant.

"Ulfric Stormcloak. Some here in Helgen call you hero. But a hero doesn't use a power like the the Thu'um to kill his king and usurp the throne. Your head is going back to Cyrodiil in a box, and presented to the Emperor himself. Priestess, give them their last rites." Tullius's eyes were heavy, and he had black bags under his eyes. It was clear that he hadn't slept in days. Norok had to respect a man that used few words to get a point across.

"As we bid you goodbye from this world, and ready you for the next, we must bid to the Eight that-" And she was interrupted by a young Nord, in the Stormcloak armor walk up. The Imperial Legionnaires strung their bows, but all he did was walk to the block, where a massive Nord wielding a massive double bladed axe was waiting.

"For the love of Talos, shut the fuck up and lets get this over with!" The Nord yelled. The priestess, with a visible look of annoyance, submitted to the request. Soon a long guttural roar was heard, and it echoed within the town. Everyone looked up, and the General just dismissed it.

"Its nothing. Continue." And the massive Nord swung the axe up.

"My ancestors are smiling down on me, Can you say the same thing?" And the axe chomped down, and his young head went rolling. It landed in the basket, and the executioner wiped the blood of his axe. The Captain then kicked the body off the block, and yelled for the next prisoner.

"You! The Nord in the rags." And Norok shuffled forward, and knelt down. He was angry at his life. He didn't deserve this, but he accepted it. He was a Nord, they didn't freeze up in the face of death. No true Nord did.

"Say your prayers." And he prayed to Akatosh that Dragons returned and roasted her to pieces. Hey, no one ever said that he couldn't hate on the Captain.

The axe rose. And it started its mad descent. And that is when he heard the roar once again. A large gust of wind made the executioner stagger, making him drop the massive red and black axe. The words rang in his ears. He tried to cover his ears, but he couldn't. Words chanted in his ear.

_Fus-Ro-Duh! Dovahkiin. You are the Dovahkiin's protector. Die as a Nord, Norok! _

And a black dragon, with scales that glistened, deadly horns that snorted, and wings that were spread out, land on the keep, making a shock wave. And Norok's heart filled with dread. For a ball of fire was starting to form in his black maw, to waste the town.

And his heart lifted for some reason.

_Death. Not to feared. Arkay welcomes all. Malacath be with you Norok. You gave me a good death. _


	8. Unbound Part 2

**Thanks for all the reviews! Thanks to BDLG for being a regular. Also, thanks to Getoutofmybathroom for the great review! That is the kind of constructive criticism authors look for. Not flames. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed and followed and favorited. Remember, this is my own version of Skyrim. I will be loosely following the game. Please review, either long or short, it does not matter. No flames please! **

**Ralof P.O.V**

The appearance of the dragon sort of interrupted the execution that General Tulius was having. Ralof looked with wonder as the black dragon landed with great force, making everyone stumble or stagger. Taking this opportunity, he ran towards the headsman, slamming into him with great force. A deep rumble was heard as the sky darkened. Thunder flashed across the sky as flaming rocks the size of him starting raining down. One slammed right into the inn, making it burst into flames. **  
**

Lifting both of his hands, he smashed his fists across the face of the headsman, drawing blood. A flash of pain erupted in his lower back, as the headsman cracked him in the spine. Regaining his composure, he reared back, bringing his fists back into the face of the enemy. The man, a grand Nord, was surprising easy to beat, for he slumped over the block, unconscious. Fishing around the belt of the man, he grasped the hilt of a small dagger. Laughing in happiness, he flipped inwards, cutting fast. The binds were sawed off, and he clenched his hands together. Seeing Norok, who was gazing at the dragon with awe and a degree of fear. He was still on the chopping block, like he was still going to die.

_He's going to die. _Though the man was a evident hater of the Stormcloaks, he was a fellow prisoner, and wronged by the Empire.

He was also a good and honest man. One that Ralof would follow if he wasn't so loyal to Ulfric.

"To me Norok!" And the dark haired Nord looked at him with relief, before following him. Jets of fire escaped from the black menace's mouth, before flapping his great wings, and lifting off, letting of another burst of flame. Gusts of wind were generated from the sheer strength of the wings, lifting Ralof's hair a little. Looking around, he saw his fellow Stormcloaks in a tower, around seven or so. Motioning for Norok to follow him, he sprinted towards the tower, dodging a falling stone.

Reaching the entrance, he saw two Stormcloaks bleeding greatly. Pieces of broken wood were gutting from their torsos, and that made Ralof shudder in fear. No matter how much death he witnessed, the death by impalement always made him cower and in fear of what was in store for him. Ulfric was also there, and he looked at Norok with a gaze of hatred and spite, which was returned.

"Ulfric. Is that really a dragon? Like in the legends?" Asked a rather young looking Stormcloak, who was on the staircase.

"Legends do not burn down towns and slaughter innocent lives. No, the dragon is real. And we are still alive. Tor, look for a way out of here. Ralof, make sure no Imperials get through. The rest of you," He then paused, looking straight at Norok with spite," Get ready to leave. We have to get out of here quick." Ralof then sprinted towards the entrance, the small dagger in hand. He then staggered, when the tower was hit by a terrifying force. Stones were blown into smithereens by the dragonflame, and he saw the smoldering body of Tor flung towards Ulfric. It landed with a great oof, right on the floor, with a screaming Stormcloak in tow. Looking towards Norok who was frozen with fear, he moved.

"Norok! Jump to the inn!" And Norok nodded. The dragon let another burst of fire, but Norok rolled out of the way just in time, jumping out of the tower. Ralof then followed, jumping into the burning inn. Fires were everywhere, and the smoke started to choke him. Looking for a way out, he saw the staircase, and he sprinted towards it, taking care not to grasp any of the wood. Hurdling out of the entrance, he ran towards the keep, dodging more comets as they smashed right into the town. Sliding into cover behind a stone wall, he saw a Legionnaire snatched up in the great maw of the dragon. Yelling, the Legionnaire grabbed his sword from his scabbard, the imperial forged death sliding out with a _zzzing, _and he yelled.

"Long live the Empire!" Before thrusting down into the snout of the dragon. Ralof looked with great awe as the blade descended down like Akatosh himself.

Except the blade bounced off the snout like a rock off a building. The dragon looked slightly amused before crunching down, the bloody corpse of the Legionnaire being thrown like a rag doll into the burning inn. Flapping his great wings once more, he sprung up, fire erupting from his mouth. The flames splashed against the stone keep, the hot and ferocious fire scorching the stone, making it glow brightly. Ralof sprinted down the street, avoiding the Imperial Legionnaires that were firing at the dragon with their bows. Arrows flew and scraped the edge of the scales, and the dragon turned, looking rather amused. The dragon then flew up in the air, blocking out the sun with its massive shape. Then it dove, faster than anything Ralof had ever seen. Lightning cackled as it made contact with the dragon. It screamed unholy, then let out a great wall of flame.

"Ralof!" And he turned, seeing that he had managed to make it to the keep. Norok was there, along with Hadvar, his former shield-brother from Riverwood. The staring match between him and Hadvar was still going, before Ulfric showed up, carrying an Imperial forged sword, and he ran right through a Legionnaire that had seen the commotion. Norok was shocked, and Ralof could tell. Taking advantage of the confusion, he ran straight for the keep, before turning back.

"Norok. If you want to escape, come with me!" And he bolted into the keep. As he did, he saw Hadvar yell the same thing, and Norok looking rather conflicted.

Ralof turned and he saw that he was in a circular room, with a dead Stormcloak near a table. His eyes were open, as he screamed at an unknown threat. _I'll see you in Sovngarde Gunjar. _Gunjar and him had been best friends ever since he joined the Stormcloaks. He helped him with girls, swordsmanship, anything. He was his brother, his shield-brother.

He heard the door to the keep open, and he spun around, the small dagger ready to kill. He was puzzled to see Norok there, not knowing what to say or do. Ralof decided to break the tension.

"Norok. How come you decided to follow me?" And the big Nord hesitated. Ralof could see the brow of his fellow kinsman furrow in confusion.

"I...I did not want to go with the people that refused to give me a trial. Or hear me out. I accept that the Empire is weak, but do not think I like the Stormcloaks any better. I have just gotten a new lease on life, and I intend to kill every last Imperial in this keep, and if any Stormcloak is in the way, so be it." Norok answered. Ralof nodded before pointing to Gunjar.

"Gunjar was wearing his guardsmen armor. It is the armor of Windhelm, but just take out the sash. Your weapons and armor are most likely in the lower levels of the keep." Norok nodded, before stripping Gunjar of his armor.

"Rest in peace Gunjar." And Norok closed the eyes of the lifeless Gunjar. Ralof looked back to see Norok grab the iron sword of Gunjar, give it a few twirls, before tossing it to Ralof.

"How come?" Asked Ralof. Norok just laughed, before grabbing the greatsword from Gunjar's back. It was made of good castle forged iron; it wouldn't be able to cut through anything elven or dwarven, but it could easily cut through Imperial Steel. Ralof looked at the room. There was a staircase going down, but it was on the opposite side of a locked door. As he was cursing, he heard voices.

"Quick," he whispered to Norok," Hide!"

Norok nodded before dashing to a column that hid his massive body. Ralof did the same, pressing behind a stone column. The door swung open, and the Imperials walked in. Two legionnaires dressed in their leather armor with mail coating; and one officer with the steel armor of the legion. The swords they carried were made of steel, making them dangerous as can be.

"Mam, are you sure we shouldn't try to escape? Bring word to the Jarl in Solitude?" One legionnaire asked. The officer looked back, and it was the same officer that had tried to cut off Norok's and Ralof's heads.

"No!" She bitterly shot back, and that was that. As the three Legionnaires walked, Ralof could tell that they were not on guard. It was to prove their last and fatal mistake.

Giving out a war cry, he drew his sword and slashed. The iron sword bit eagerly into the left arm of the Legionnaire, who cried out in shock and pain. The other two cursed before drawing their swords to meet their foe. Using his momentum, he pivoted on his left foot, and swung the sword downward. The Legionnaire let out one more cry of surprise before meeting his gods. His head rolled onto the ground, fountains of blood spurting out.

The other leather clad Legionnaire bellowed a great cry, before meeting Ralof's blade in a clash of sparks. The blow jarred Ralof, but he shrugged it off. Time slowed as his adrenaline rush kicked in, as he slashed upward. The Legionnaire parried it before going low on his knees and slashing at Ralof's knees. Ralof jumped back, slicing the armor off his counterpart. A great cry went out as Norok joined the fray, cutting down the officer easily. The other Legionnaire fell to his knees, and was promptly removed of his head.

Norok looked at the Redguard officer with disgust before wiping his blade clean with the tunic of a dead Legionnaire. Taking a steel sword for himself, he clicked the new weapon to his belt, before cutting off the key to the door from the officer's belt.

Sliding the key, he opened the door and rushed down the staircase, with Ralof barely keeping up. As he was about to dash into a hallway, a great crash was heard, and the ceiling was about to crumble. Ralof jumped forward, grabbing Norok with all his strength and pulled him back. Seconds later, the ceiling caved in, leading a cloud of dust right to them.

"Thanks Ralof. You saved my life." And Ralof just nodded. As they turned right into a storeroom, the surprised cries of men in armor brought their attention back. Four men in armor were drawing swords and maces before Norok realized who it was.

"Ulfric II?" And the red headed leader of the Stormcloaks looked at the dark headed man with much surprise.

"Norok?" And the two men rushed forward, giving each other bone crushing hugs.

"How long has it been?" Ulfric II exclaimed.

"Three years! I haven't seen since your father's armies took back Fort Amol from the bandits." And Ralof remembered that day. _Too many men died for the fort. The damn Silver-Bloods. And yet they are still here._

"I know! What are you doing here?" And the brow of Ulfric the Second, the Heir to the Eastmarch Hold and the Thegn of Windhelm, was curled upwards, as he looked confused.

"I was captured along with your father. They accused me of being one of you. I have the greatest respect for you my shield-brother. But your father is a madman. I only hope that you will do better." The facial expression of Norok had taken a grave face, like someone like a funeral.

"Well we are not out of the woods yet! We can discuss my father and other things at a latter date. Until then, we must escape this keep. There is a secret way in the tunnels. No doubt the Imperials have it heavily under guard. Let's go." Ulfric said and Norok nodded.

"Aye." Was the simple response. Looting the storeroom, they smashed their way into the next room, only to be horrified by what they saw.

There were gruesome displays of bodies everywhere, and the sound of battle was still heard. The cackling of a madman and the roar of thunder was heard right alongside the clash of steel and brawn. Ralof sprinted forward, only to see an Atlmer in a hood and Imperial armor cackling, as he sprouted lightning from his fingertips. Three Stormcloaks laid dead on the floor, alongside with three Imperials. Two Stormcloaks were hiding behind a armory, while an Imperial Legionnaire was holding his stomach in pain.

But a silver haired girl was holding her own. Wearing the robes of a novice mage, she let loose a torrent of flames, making the Atlmer man cry out in pain. Burnt wisps of hair were falling from his black head, and he looked at the silver haired girl with a thirst for her blood. Ralof of Riverwood could only stare in amazement as the silver haired girl stood her ground.

The Atlmer let loose another barrage of lightning, but the silver haired girl placed her hands up, and a magical barrier soon appeared, warding off the lighting. She then rushed forward, a conjured sword in her right hand, an iron shield in the other.

The Atlmer was caught off guard as the shield was slammed hard into his gut, making him fall to the ground. He rolled off to the side when the wispy blade came crying, and all that was heard was the noise of magic on stone. Pivoting, she slammed the sword right into the right shoulder of the Atlmer, who cried out in pain. But before she could finish him off, he tackled her to the ground, using his bigger frame to pin her. Slapping the blade, it dissipated, and the he cracked her in the jaw with a lightning punch.

Crying out in pain, the girl tried to kick him off, but he was too big. A sadistic smile was soon spreading over the Atlmer, but before he could take advantage of the girl's position, Ralof saw a blade erupt from his backside, shimmering Skyforge steel glinting with red tints of blood. Jerking the blade out, Ulfric slammed the blade right into the Altmer's back, making him cry out in pain, before slumping to the side. Ulfric grabbed the girl and hugged her tightly. Ralof looked at his Thegn with surprise. The man looked at her with a glint of glee and glint of something else.

_Love? Happiness?_ Ralof then saw the Thegn put his head into the crook of her neck. She then grabbed his hair and buried her face into it. The Thegn then withdrew, before sniffling.

_The Thegn crying? Gods, dragons, bastards, and other things. This day is full of surprises. _

"Sandra Winter's-Blade, it has been to long."

**So, yeah. Not my best work, but it is good enough for almost a two month hiatus. I am sorry for the delay, school, JROTC blah blah you haven't already heard from my ASOIAF fic, but I am going to have to dedicate all of the weekend and next week to writing a long ass novel for my sister. She loves Pitch Perfect, but she can't write for shit. I on the other hand, have an ok writing skill, so she is forcing me to write the novel under the threat of hacking and locking me out of the computer. **

**SO yeah. Review please!**


	9. Call to Arms

Again thanks for all the reviews!

**Call to Arms**

**Quaestor Aelius Antonius**

The fog started to roll in, the grey mist covering the Imperial camp. The camp was on the main road from Solitude to Morthal; The Legion was mobilizing to meet the incoming Stormcloak threat. A dozen Imperial legionnaires were encamped, with two standing sentry. The crack of the new dawn sun came calling from the Haffingar Mountains, as the summer snows started to melt away. The dew frost on the trees were dripping ever so slightly.

Quaestor Aelius Antonius let out a yawn as he threw off the sheets on his cot. He was an Imperial, standing around five-foot nine, with short cropped sandy brown hair. His hazel eyes spoke of experience, as a jagged scar came across his forehead, a result from a clash with a Thalmor Justicar ten years ago. His tanned skin was crisscrossed with tattoos, wild dances of red and black, and as he stood up, he was already dressed in his armor; Imperial leather armor with mail on the shoulders and chest area. A leather helmet with the crest of the Legion was on a small table nearby.

Approaching it, he grabbed before tucking it under his right arm, the cries of the birds growing louder as he opened the flap to his tent. A single cooking fire was sprawling right on the cobbled stone road, with three legionnaires standing around it, trying to keep warm in the cool summer day. A blacksmith was hammering on his anvil a couple of paces away, and three archers were patrolling the outer perimeter of the camp.

"Hail!" yelled a legionnaire, and Aelius returned the gesture. The six tents housed two legionnaires each, except for him. He cracked his neck, before rolling his shoulders. He had slept for about three hours, before having to start moving his legionnaires to reinforce a century heading towards the border with Whiterun.

"Hail Quaestor!" yelled a Redguard legionnaire, and again Aelius returned the gesture. The sound of a stew brewing almost proved to strong to resist, but he had to receive the reports from the perimeter guards.

"Hail Quaestor!" yelled an archer as he approached him. Standing at attention, the archer dropped the gesture when Aelius returned it.

"Report Auxiliary." he ordered. The archer went over the night's watch, with sightings of three civilians, a caravan of traders, and wild animals prowling around the camp. They didn't attack, because Aelius had the Wood Elf traveling with them keep them at bay. The Wood Elf was a legionnaire, an archer of the 2nd Cohort stationed in Morthal, but with the ongoing hostilities, the cohort was being moved to garrison the nearby fort, before sending men to garrison abandoned ruins and towns in order to stem the tide of Stormcloaks.

"Get some food and rest. We move out in an hour." and the archer saluted before sprinting off to the fire. Aelius chuckled, remembering when he was a young legionnaire on his first days of deployment.

"Sir." the archer said. stopping in his tracks.

"Yes Auxiliary?"

"Do you think we will win the war?" and Aelius stiffened. Only twenty-six years after the Great War, the Thalmor were gaining strength, while the Empire was becoming weaker and weaker.

_Talos save us. We cannot fight brother vs brother. Father vs father. Spilling the blood of our kin. We are men and mer and we have to defeat the bloody High Elves. Talos will be restored, but only when the Crystal Tower will be molten down and become the new crown of the Red Diamond Throne. Talos save us. _

"We will fight our hardest. Whoever wins, only the Divines know." was Aelius' reply.

The archer went stiff as well, before relaxing.

"How? My brother has joined the Stormcloaks. I don't want to kill my brother." the archer said, doubt in his voice. Aelius couldn't blame him; brothers vs brothers. The Thalmor. The Dominion will cross the border once the civil war ended.

_Talos, what have we done to deserve this? The Dominion will march, while we bicker like children over a broken toy. Please Talos, help me. _

"By the Nine, I do not know. But we must win, or the Dominion will destroy us when this all over. The center must hold, or we are doomed to be destroyed by the High Elves." Aelius responded, an etch of fear in his voice.

"The fucking elves. I wished Oblivion would have taken them. But now we must contend with those damn Thalmor in our provinces." the archer spat, and walked away, ending the conversation.

The hour passed quickly, and the camp was packed up, heading towards the small city of Morthal. It was ruled by Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone, a woman surrounded in mystery and superstition. The forest of the Haafingar hold was soon changed to the dense marshes of the Hjaalmarch. The people of the marshes were called the boggers, for they were not as burly and strong as the rest of the Nords. Instead, they relied on cleverness and adapting to survive. The marshes of the hold held dangers that were not commonplace in Skyrim. Soon the legionnaires passed by a small swamp when a loud shrill cry broke the early morning silence.

"What was that?" asked a legionnaire, drawing his Imperial sword. The other legionnaires did the same, while the three archers of the group did the same. The Wood Elf legionnaire drew a large hunting bow, an iron-tipped arrow already knocked. Aelius did the same, his sword his comfort. The same cry came crashing onto the ears of the legionnaires, making them jumpy and nervous. The shields were up, the steel facing in every direction.

"I've always hated Morthal and the land..." a legionnaire muttered, and Aelius agreed with him. The Quaestor had grown up in the Reach, with the threat of the Forsworn always making him cautious of his surroundings.

"Be quiet! Form a line, two legionnaires facing each direction! Archers in the middle! The rest protect the materials!" Aelius ordered and the discipline of the legionnaires instilled by years of fighting was evident as they effortlessly moved into formation.

The tension was thick as the legionnaires were on the lookout for the source of the noise. Suddenly shadows surrounded the legionnaires. Creeping closer, the unmistakable sound of steel being drawn was heard.

"For Skyrim!" a hoarse voice yelled, and a cacophony of yells followed it. Two legionnaires went down with arrows protruding from their throats, the sickening sound of bodies falling to the ground.

A dozen Stormcloaks emerged from the bogs, all dressed in the standard Stormcloak armor except for one, who was more finely armored, obviously an officer. Drawing massive swords and axes, they surrounded the surviving legionnaires.

"Imperial dogs! Time to die!" yelled one.

"We will defeat you!" yelled another. Aelius remained calm. _Do not panic in combat. Panic and hesitation will lead to death, but decisiveness and quick thinking will let you live. _

"Archers!" and the whistling of arrows came screaming. Three black shafts emerged from behind the screen and two Stormcloaks went down screaming, arrows protruding from their throats.

"Attack! Kill them all!" and the Nords crashed against the shields of the legionnaires, axes cleaving and people yelling. The legionnaires held strong though, and they soon pushed then Nords off, with arrows falling like rain.

"Aaron! Flank them and take out their archers!" yelled Aelius as he ducked under a swing from an axe. The Wood Elf nodded before firing two arrows in quick succession, and two Stormcloaks crumpled to the ground.

Aelius found himself facing down a large Nord, about three inches taller than his height and smelling like he just walked out of pile of manure. His large beard was matted with dirt, while his dark hair was loosely tied in braids.

"Divines man, where the Oblivion have you been sleeping?" Aelius insulted, and the man roared, spittle landing on Aelius. Wiping off his armor, he hefted his shield in time in order to block the tremendous blow. His Imperial shield absorbed the shock from the blow with ease, and Aelius swung his sword downward, being parried by the massive shaft of the battleaxe.

Using his forward momentum, he rolled to the side, striking a glancing blow off the mail shirt of the Stormcloak. He then pulled his arm back, in order to avoid being dismembered by the large battleaxe. Raising his shield above his head, the large battleaxe once again slammed into it, staggering the Nord and giving Aelius a moment of respite. The Imperial officer then charged forward, slamming right into the Stormcloak and pushing him forward, and making flop to the ground.

Giving himself a moment to catch his breath, he flexed his sword hand, twirling in his sword in a circular motion, waiting for the Stormcloak to get up. Wild swings started to come out of nowhere, and he recoiled in pain when a sword scraped across the leather bracers. The leather managed to stop the dull iron, but anything sharper would have cut right into him.

"Imperial! I am Karia Frozen-Heart! I am the brother of Arrald Frozen-Heart, the Storm of the Marshes! I fight with ice in my veins, and I will kill you! But before I gut you, I want to know who I am killing. So who are you and how would you like to die today?" yelled the short Nord. Her blonde hair was matted with dirt, her sharp cheekbones radiating with heat. Her cuirass was stained with blonde, with a long iron longsword in her left hand, a war axe in the other. Her hazel eyes radiated strength and a will to do anything.

"I am Quaestor Aelius Antonius of the 4th Legion. The blood of House Antonius runs through me, and Talos himself has blessed me. The Nine watch over me, as they watch over you, and I will be the one surviving this encounter." Aelius retorted. His shield was hefted up, his sword ready to kill. But something stopped him. The Nordic girl was strong and had a strong will, and something from her made Aelius swoon. But no time for that now.

"It is nice to meet someone who believes in Talos. But, alas, I must kill you. Hopefully you will got Sovngarde." and Aelius could have sworn he saw a single tear roll down her left eye. She swung her axe towards him, while spinning. Her left foot sprung forward, and she spun with so fast, she was a blur. Her axe bit right into the shield, while her sword scraped along the edge of his bracers. Stepping back, his shield making sure that he didn't die, he slashed forward, and the blade cut right into her armor. As she staggered back, he smashed right into her, using his superior height and weight to push her into the ground.

"You were easy to beat Ice-Veins. If you are the best Ulfric has to offer, then I am sorely disappointed. Apparently you have milk in your veins, not ice." and the Nordic woman screamed bloody murder as Aelius smashed his fist into her face. He then drew his sword across her throat.

"Never. And I mean never, let me see you again, understand Milk-Veins? I will kill you the next time we meet, for my mercy will not be extended a second time, do we understand each other?" the girl nodded and Aelius grabbed her arms and threw her, trying to keep her image out of his head.

The sounds of dying men came to his ears, and the clash of steel was waning. Six legionnaires were dead, while three were nursing wounds. One legionnaire was on his feet, waiting for orders. The screams of men were also waning, and soon, a blood soaked Wood Elf emerged from the bog, several superficial wounds evident.

"How many dead Auxiliary?" he asked the Redguard watching over the dead.

"Eight dead. Three wounded. Two legionnaires fit for military duty." the legionnaire said and Aelius' heart sunk. He went down to his knees.

"Talos save me." he sang out.

"Talos guide me." the Redguard sang out as well.

"Talos liberate me." the Wood Elf sang as well.

"Talos, we pray to you to please save us. We are your humble servants, though the bloody Thalmor may try to kill your image and your ascendance into the heavens, know that the Empire is beaten, but not broken. We will not let this go. We praise you Talos, we wish for you to know."

"Akatosh, we are your children."

"Stendarr, we are your mortal servants."

"Mara, we are your shields."

"Diabella, we are your swords."

"Arkay, we are your timekeepers."

"Kynareth, we are your wind."

"Juilanos, we are your bookkeepers."

"Zenithar, we are your workers."

"We are the last Knights of the Nine. We will carry out our work as our forefathers did."

And the three Legionnaires turned to the still rising sun to the north, coming from up the Haafingar Mountains. The Karth split right under the bridge, leading to the rest of Skyrim.

"Long live the Empire! Long live the Divines!"

_"Long live Talos!" _and the sun seemed to brighten, as a dawn of a new age came about.

**_So, I started to go through the Knights of the Nine DLC and I love it. A lot of action, lot of cool stuff. Didn't really see an oath, but I just wanted to make up an oath and add a break before we head into a chapter to meet with our Nordic clansman and his lovely elf companion._**


	10. Walking down the Seven Thousand Steps

Thank you Boys Do Like Girls for your reviews. Check out his stories, they are a major inspiration for mine. Also, sorry for the long wait. I was stuck and finally got my muse back. For those people that read this and I usually review your stories, sorry about that, I haven't been able to read your stories for at least three months. Still catching up on Boys Do Like Girls' latest updates. Seriously, check his stories out. _  
_

**Reker Rock-Stone's POV**

It was a fine fall day. The snow was falling lighter than usual on the mountains that Reker called home. The sun was poking through the afternoon clouds, bringing rays of light to the mountain and creating beautiful reflections of light upon snow. Small droplets of water were also falling from the mountain cliffs, and the looming shadow of High Hrothgar brought a new light into Reker. And then there was the High Elf that was his traveling companion.

The High Elf bitched. A lot. Reker wanted to grab his hammer and bash her head in. As they trudged down the mountain towards the village of Ivarstead, all he heard was bitching and moaning about how cold it was. Reker _hated it._ He wanted to smash his hammer into her skull and the leave her for the mountain trolls and the Ice Wolves that populated the trails toward the villages of the mountains that surrounded the Rift.

"These mountains are so cold. No wonder you Nords are so stupid. The cold must have gotten to your heads a long time ago,"she complained. Reker had to stop himself from killing the High Elf. He had to shake his head in order to make sure that what he was thinking about didn't come true.

_Don't worry about it. Hopefully the cold will kill her, and if that doesn't, the Stormcloaks will just assume that the Thalmor are trying to take you in and kill her..._His malicious thoughts were interrupted by a high pitch squeal.

"Help me!" came a high pitch voice from down the mountain path. The mountain path was intersecting with the one from the The Throat of the World, and it was probably a lost child or something.

Reker grabbed his hammer from his sheath on the back of his fur armor and went to see where the origin of the voice was. The low visibility was no problem for a native of Skyrim, he squinted, looking through the snow covered mountains. He then heard a chorus of growling and the scuffling of feet. His hammer in his hands, he continued to advance towards the voice. He swore he heard shivering and whimpering.

"Let's go Elf. We got someone to save," the Nord clansman said. His gruff voice was softer than his usual harsh, sharp voice.

"Why do we have to this again?" asked the High Elf.

"Because, unlike _You Thalmor, _us Nords would never let someone innocent die, Elf, Beast, or Human. No matter what our prejudices against the race, we are not monsters who make families separate. At least the Nords in my village. We are not racist," he said." Most of us."

"Pah, you darn Nords are so stubborn. I hope Oblivion take you one day."

The snow was starting to pick up. The cold tongues of winter licked his arms, but for a brother Nord, he was fine. The Thalmor bitch on the other hand, was freezing, and she was lighting fire in her hands in order to make sure she didn't freeze to death.

_Fucking Elf. _But he couldn't help but feel something for the cold bitch. She was extremely beautiful, and though his mind said don't fall for her, his heart was slowly melting. His heart was the ultimate betrayer. Always.

"_Ahooo!" _came a startling cry from nearby. To Reker, it sounded like wolves, the nasty ice kinds that inhabited the mountainous areas. Hammer in hand, he approached the area, slowly. The High Elf, unnaturally quiet, followed close behind, her hands engulfed with fire magic.

_Ahooo!" _came the howl once more. And from a path above Reker, a giant ice wolf came crashing into him. Hide and paws white, foam and spittle dripped onto the clansman's face. Falling back onto the path, his hammer went flying, lost in the snow. All he had was the iron dagger that his father had given him before he left.

"Gross!" yelled the clansman, before putting up his arm. The wolf snarled, and snapped at the clansman, aiming for his face, but the jaws found themselves lodged right into the fur armor. The fur armor wasn't the greatest protection, but it allowed for Reker to slam his fist right into the side of the wolf, making it yelp in surprise, and allowing Reker to then wrap his other arm around the wolf and push. The wolf went flying off, pushed off by the massive strength of the man.

"That's right! Come on, don't like the sight of prey fighting back?!" he yelled back, striking the beast in the throat with a knife hand. The beast roared with pain, before snapping his razor sharp teeth at the hand. Reker withdrew quickly, before wrapping both of his arms around the wolf's neck. Squeezing, he let the wolf thrash and thrash, before the wolf started to stop to struggle. Slowly the movements became less jerky, slower and sluggish. Finally, the wolf went limp, succumbing to the void.

"That was close," said the Elf. Reker had never bothered to learn her name, because he thought she would die quickly. Obviously that was not going to happen anytime soon, so he had to deal with her.

"Thanks for the help," the snow covered man said, before picking himself up. Grabbing his stone hammer, he sheathed right back onto his back, and continued to try and search for the source of the voice.

"Hello! Is anyone there!" he shouted, and it was nothing but an empty echo. But then there was a squeaky voice, high pitched.

"YES! Please help! There is a wolf right below me and I can't get down!" the voice yelled back. Reker found the location, just a few mountain paces away. Walking briskly, he brought out a slingshot, and several lead projectiles.

Wood was rare in the mountains, and the few trees that grew up in the harsh mountain area, were cut down for shelter. Lead was abundant as well in the mountains, being used by the elite sling shot men of the Mountain clans. Slings were easy to make and easy to train with, and the mountain clansman loved his sling.

Loading a lead projectile, he saw the ice wolf growling and snapping it's jaws at an unseen figure that was huddling on top of one of the stones that dotted the landscape. Spittle sprayed over the snow, drool and Divines know what else there was leaking onto the white powder that other people stepped on and sometimes drank. Reker felt his stomach turn. He was not going to be drinking frozen snow anytime soon. The clansman looked at the wolf as it turned it's wild black eyes toward the giant Nord. Giving his sling two quick spins to maximize velocity, he literally launched the lead projectile towards the wolf, a sickening _crack_ being heard as it smashed against the wolf's head, bones breaking as the primitive but yet deadly lead bullet impacted on it's jaw.

The wolf whimpered but was still on all fours. It's jaw hanging loosely due to it being broken, Reker put his sling back and drew his hammer, waiting to kill the wolf with his two hands and his stone weapon. The clans of the mountains were going to hear about this.

The wolf charged, snarling, but Reker charged forward as it did, his hammer in hand. Snarling as savage as the wolf, he lowered his shoulder, and as the wolf leapt into the air, its maw opened and snapping to find Reker's throat, he smashed right into the wolf, knocking it out of the air, making it lose its that it had from its lungs,and ending it with a single crash of his hammer.

_Reker Rock-Stone. Soon to be Reker Wolfsbane. Har. _

He looked at the bloody wolf all destroyed and bloody and kneeling down, he saw the open eyes, the black eyes that preyed hungrily for human flesh. Murmuring a quick prayer to Talos for this poor animal, he closed its eyes and looked for the source of the sound.

"What was that?" the High Elf asked, having hidden from the wolf. She was a bitch, Reker knew, and he hoped that she had her throat torn out by a dragon or something equally ferocious.

"It was a bloody ice wolf, one of the ones that run in the mountains. I killed two, wasn't that hard, these things are bloody wolves, but there might be more. Seem to have a likening for Elf flesh. Har," he said and soon he felt two hands clutch his arm. Warm hands that smelt of fire and the Islands of the south. Something that smelt like lavender. _Who the fuck smells like lavender? _

"Look alive Elf. It seems that there is someone. I heard crying and whimpering. Wolves are going to stay back since I killed two of the pack, but they won't hold back forever," he said quietly.

"Where are you child?" she asked the wind. Soon a wailing was heard.

"There she is," Reker said as he pointed to the snow. A small figure was huddled in furs, shivering like she was being shaken, when Reker approached her. She was on top of one of the shrines that dotted the path towards High Hrothgar.

"Who, who are you?" she asked quietly, scared for her life.

"My name is Reker Rock-Stone, of Clan Rock-Stone. This is...well, I don't know what her name is. What is your name?" he asked with worried tone.

"My name is Lydia. My mother and I were taking the food to High Hrothgar. We got separated from each other and the other pilgrims heading there...can you please take me to them?" she asked. Reker visibly gulped. A few hours ago they had stumbled upon a campsite where six people had been slain by trolls. He and the Elf Bitch had killed the two trolls, but it had been difficult.

"I'm sorry Lydia, but your mother...your mother is no longer here. She has gone to Sovngarde," he muttered with sorrow in his voice.

"What? No. She couldn't have. She is still out there!" she said with panic in her voice. Soon tears were welling up and spilling onto the cold ground. He didn't notice that the snow was melting wherever the tears made contact with. He was too busy trying to comfort her.

"Listen child. Where do you live?" he asked gently. She continued to cry, tears racing down her cheeks as fast they could.

"I live in a farm outside Ivarstead," she finally said, tears still flowing and she was still sniffling.

"Do you have any family besides your mother?" he asked. The land of Skyrim was rough and because of this, many children grew up in orphanages, the streets, or even the wild.

"My...my father and my uncle. My father is a guard that is stationed in Riften, while my uncle is the guard captain in Ivarstead. Can you take me to my father?" she asked sweetly.

"Of course. It's only a few minutes down the path. Sweetie can you tell me how you and your mother were separated?" he asked.

"We were heading up the steps...then the wolves and the trolls came. The trolls killed Cleva, while the wolves killed Dog, the dog. I ran...my mother told me to run towards the shrines to save myself. I heard fighting, and then the howling. I was huddled on top of the shrine for hours it seemed," she said with a grief stricken voice. It pained him to hear her sound like that.

"Well, Lydia, we are going to get you home. Ok? Come here," he said, raising his hands towards her. She was startled it seemed, but she soon jumped into his arms. She was cold and her small figure meant that she couldn't be more than eight years old. She had black hair that drooped down to her shoulders, blue eyes that shone like ice crystal, and was wearing a winter cloak and fur pants and boots.

"Let's go Elf. We got to make a quick stop in the most heavily protected settlement that the Stormcloaks controlled," he said with fierceness. He had to find this little girls father if he couldn't find the uncle. He looked down and saw that she had drifted to sleep. He kissed her temple and soon, he and the Elf Bitch were walking down the final steps of the Seven Thousand Steps that lead to Ivarstead. As soon as they descended down the final steps, the clouds lifted, and the snow ceased. What they saw was what they did not want to see.

Ivarstead was burning.


End file.
